


everything that makes you (who you are)

by fandomlver



Series: the fight that will give you the right (to be free) [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blackouts, But also, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Seriously guys, recovery from slavery, there's some heavy shit here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally back in France with his brothers, d'Artagnan does his best to pick up the pieces of his life.</p>
<p>Note this is the sequel to Precious, NOT Dreams.</p>
<p>Among other things, this story has panic attacks, blackouts and berserk rages. I've had panic attacks and blackouts, but not for years. If something I've written is upsetting or triggering in any way, please, please let me know about it; I would rather rewrite this thing fifty times than set anyone off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Don't lose your faith; don't turn away. Everything that makes you who you are will not lead you astray. When it gets cold, too dark to see, reach in your soul..._

d'Artagnan’s been in Paris for four days when it hits him.

He’d slept for most of a day that first time; every time he’d started to wake he’d been soothed back to sleep by the others’ voices. When he’d finally woken he’d only eaten and gone straight back to sleep.

The second time he wakes he thinks he’s alone, until Porthos stirs. He’s been standing by the window, looking out. “Afternoon.”

“Is it?” d'Artagnan pushes himself to sit, frowning at the odd light headed sensation.

Porthos offers him a cup. “How d’you feel?”

_Numb_ is the first thing that comes to d'Artagnan’s mind, but he doesn’t think that’s what Porthos wants to hear, and he can’t think of anything else. Porthos watches him struggle for a moment before prompting “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says in relief, though he isn’t.

“They can bring in a bath, too, if you like.”

d'Artagnan hesitates over that one, but he’ll have to get used to it sometime. “Thank you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Right. Last decision.” Porthos pushes away from the window. “Constance is gonna hear you’re awake, and she’s going to come looking to see you. She’s already been here twice.”

“Twice? How long have I been here?”

Porthos shakes his head absently. “She’ll go if I send her away, but she won’t stop coming.”

“Let her in,” d'Artagnan says with a sigh. He doesn’t want to face her, not while he’s still this unsteady, but putting it off won’t help either, and he doesn’t want to make her worry.

“Good lad,” Porthos says approvingly. “Right. Food first, cause otherwise you might drown.”

He goes to the door, talking quietly to someone just outside. d'Artagnan stands carefully and crosses to the window, looking out at the gardens below. It’s a good view, he notes distantly.

“All right?” Porthos asks from behind him.

“Mmm.” He doesn’t turn.

Constance arrives on the heels of the kitchen boy. Porthos talks quietly to her for a moment before busying himself with the tray. 

“d'Artagnan,” she says quietly.

“Constance,” he answers.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he assures her. “I’ve just woken up, that’s all.”

“You’ve slept so long.” She brushes his hair back, and if she notices the way he watches her hand while it’s near him, she doesn’t comment. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you.” It’s mostly true. Once Louis was free, d'Artagnan had done his best never to think of his life in France, but he’d remembered Constance with a pang at odd moments.

“Her majesty sent me to make sure you have everything you need. She asks that, when you feel better, you might visit with her.”

“With the Queen?”

“Yes. I don’t know what this mission is, but you’re the royal favourite now.”

d'Artagnan stares at her, suddenly very cold. “That’s not…”

Porthos looks up sharply. “d'Artagnan?”

“That wasn’t why.”

“Come and eat.”

An order, and he can’t focus enough to fight it. d'Artagnan shuffles past Constance. The room doesn’t have a table; Porthos has the tray on the bed, and after a moment’s thought he takes what he wants and settles on the floor in a corner with his back to the wall.

“He’s just tired,” Porthos says quietly. “And a bit stressed. It’s not been easy on him, the last year and a half.”

Constance’s answer is too soft for d'Artagnan to hear, but a moment later she kneels in front of him. “You’ll get your dress dirty,” he tells her.

“I have other dresses.”

“I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“You didn’t shout.”

“Oh.” He’d _felt_ like he was shouting.

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

d'Artagnan forces a smile, meeting her eyes briefly. “It’s me. It’s the mission, I’m still on guard. I can’t stop. It’ll get better.”

Constance smiles, but her eyes are sad. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yes.”

Porthos escorts her out, coming back to crouch in front of d'Artagnan. “You all right?”

d'Artagnan eyes him, wondering just how hard he’d have to kick that knee to knock Porthos over if he had to. Distantly, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this, but that part of him is overshadowed by the part that knows he’s backed into a corner, unarmed and outweighed.

“d'Artagnan.”

“Yes. No,” he corrects himself. “Does everyone think that? That I – the mission – for favours?”

“Constance doesn’t think that.” d'Artagnan is silent; Porthos continues, “The people who matter don’t think that. We know the truth. The king and queen know the truth. And Treville made damn sure the Musketeers knew it was difficult, dangerous, and you were doing it for king and country.”

_I wasn’t,_ d'Artagnan wants to say and doesn’t. _I just couldn’t persuade myself to give up._

Someone knocks at the door. Porthos scowls, goes to answer, and comes back. “It’s the bath.” d'Artagnan nods, but he doesn’t say anything. Porthos lets them in.

d'Artagnan stays where he is and eats while they’re setting up. They must know he’s there – royal servants are too well trained not to – but none of them look at him, and he wonders idly what the palace grapevine is saying about him.

Porthos closes the door on the last servant, a maid who’d been very eager to stay and help, and looks at d'Artagnan. “You ready?”

“Porthos –“ d'Artagnan climbs to his feet and then stops, not sure what to do next. “Can you – be somewhere else, for a little while?”

Porthos studies him. “You know it doesn’t mean anything to me, what scars you’ve got.”

“I know.”

“I can go, but not for long. Athos’ll skin me alive if he finds out.”

d'Artagnan nods. Porthos sighs, picking up his cloak and inspecting it. “Oh dear, a rip. Better go take care of that. It’ll probably take me about ten minutes.”

He leaves without saying anything else. d'Artagnan stands for a moment before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing.

He had two baths in Spain. He remembers both clearly. He’s been told there was another one, after one of his floggings, but he doesn’t remember that one at all. The two he remembers, though – he has to test the water carefully before he can get in. He doesn’t linger, either, and by the time Porthos comes back he’s dressed and sitting carefully on the side of the bed.

“Feel better?” Porthos asks. d'Artagnan makes a noise that might be agreement, and Porthos continues “What would you like to do now?” d'Artagnan shakes his head helplessly. Porthos studies him for a moment before sighing. “If you can’t decide, can you tell me what you think if I suggest something?”

“Yes.”

“Good man.”

They end up walking in the gardens below the window. Porthos has obviously spoken to someone, because they pass a Musketeer d'Artagnan doesn’t recognise as they go in and see no one at all the rest of the time they’re there. They wander aimlessly for a while before d'Artagnan asks to sit, and once they’re sitting it’s not long before he’s dozing.

He wakes without moving when Aramis arrives, feigning sleep as he sits beside Porthos. “How is he doing?”

Porthos’ clothes rustle as he shrugs. “He’s jumpy, he’s tired, he’s confused, he can’t make any decisions, and I think we should avoid backing him in anywhere he can’t get out of for a while.”

“That good?” Aramis’ hand rests on d'Artagnan’s arm; he keeps from tensing by sheer force of will. “Has he seen –“

“Constance, yeah. Didn’t go so good. We might want to hold off on that for a while.”

“But not –“

“No. Figured it wasn’t time for that.”

They’re silent for a moment, until Porthos says softly, “He asked me to leave while he bathed.”

“And did you?”

“Figured anything he was actually asking for, I shouldn’t refuse. Told him I didn’t care about whatever scars he’s got and left him to do it.”

“Good,” Aramis murmurs. “You’re right, if he’s asking for things that has to be good. Certain things.”

“Don’t worry, there isn’t anything dangerous in the room. I checked.”

d'Artagnan frowns, just slightly. _That_ hadn’t occurred to him.

“d'Artagnan?” Aramis asks softly.

“Mmm.” d'Artagnan sits, dislodging Aramis’ hand as he does.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He runs both hands through his hair, avoiding Aramis’ look. “How long did I sleep?”

“What?”

“Constance said a long time. Porthos didn’t answer. How long?”

Aramis glances quickly at Porthos. “Two days, give or take.”

“Two days,” d'Artagnan repeats.

“You were tired. It’s not important.”

“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” Porthos adds. “Just was talking about Constance and forgot to go back to it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” d'Artagnan mutters. It’s a lie, and he’s fairly sure they can tell it is, but they don’t press.

“Well,” Aramis says, far too brightly, “I could eat something. Are you hungry? We should be going inside, anyway, Athos will be here soon.”

“We’re not going back to the garrison?”

Another quick glance. “Not today.”

“I ate a little while ago. I’m not hungry.”

“That was a few hours ago,” Porthos says carefully.

d'Artagnan shakes his head. Aramis studies him for a moment before glancing at Porthos; Porthos hauls himself to his feet, wandering a few feet away to examine a bush.

“d'Artagnan, what it is you’re having trouble with?” Aramis asks quietly. d'Artagnan glances at him, and Aramis smiles faintly. “Yes, a ridiculous question, I admit.”

“I’m just – I’m not used to it yet.”

“Not used to…”

“Deciding.”

Aramis pulls his hat off, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You trained his men.”

“Because I was told to.”

“You told them to let Porthos go.”

“And if any of them had been thinking, they’d have refused. I couldn’t really do things like that.” d'Artagnan lies back down, arm over his eyes.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Aramis asks gently.

“Doing what?”

Aramis taps his arm. “This. Hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“What is it, then? It’s not something you used to do.”

“I’m not hiding,” d'Artagnan says again. “I’m _breathing_.”

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis murmurs.

“I’m not…” He struggles upright again, gripping Aramis’ arm for balance. “I’m not right,” he manages finally. “But I’m going to be, Aramis. I am.”

“I know you will,” Aramis agrees. “Tell me what you need.”

“Order,” d'Artagnan mutters.

Aramis winces. “Apologies.”

“No, don’t – “ d'Artagnan leans forward, hunching over his own knees. “Stop – being so careful. It doesn’t help; it just reminds me, all the time. Like you’re telling me I’m broken.”

“ _Not_ broken,” Aramis says firmly.

“Yes. I heard Athos say that.”

Aramis laughs softly. “You were paying a lot more attention than I thought.”

“Have to,” d'Artagnan says absently. “To know what’s coming.”

There is silence for a long, long time. Eventually Aramis shifts. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” d'Artagnan says.

And he does; he really does. That doesn’t mean he can stop guarding himself, though.

“Come back inside?”

It’s a question, not an order. d'Artagnan sighs, but nods. “Yes.”

 

The next day, his fourth day back in Paris, d'Artagnan has word sent to the queen that he would be happy to see her. She returns a request – by an anonymous maid, not by Constance – for him to meet her in the gardens after lunch time.

Athos is his keeper today, and they pass the morning in stilted conversation and endless rounds of cards. Aramis and Porthos have clearly spoken with Athos, because the couple of decisions he asks for d'Artagnan’s input on are pointless and mean nothing; should they open the windows or not, does he want to play another hand or stop for a while. He doesn’t tell Athos that decisions like that are not a problem.

After lunch, Athos escorts him down to the gardens where the Queen is walking with her ladies. She smiles when she sees them, waving him forward. Her ladies automatically drop back; all but Constance, and a younger lady holding the hand of a tiny boy.

d'Artagnan bows to the Queen and then turns to bow to the boy. “Your Highness,” he says solemnly. The Dauphin regards him for a moment, chewing on his fist. “He’s very handsome, your majesty,” he adds to the Queen.

Anne smiles. “Constance, why don’t you two take him into the shade, there? I worry he’ll burn. d'Artagnan and I are going to walk a little, just along here.”

Constance nods, glancing at d'Artagnan as she leads the maid and the child away. d'Artagnan watches them for a moment before looking back at the Queen. “You wanted to speak with me, your majesty.”

Anne takes his arm and they begin ambling through the grounds, Athos a handful of steps behind them. “Not about anything in particular, d'Artagnan. Only to make sure you have everything you need.”

“Your servants have been very diligent, your majesty.”

“Is this better or worse?” she asks in Spanish.

“It’s all the same, your majesty.” None of the women he’d known in Spain had had any power over him, after all. “I’m happy to speak Spanish if you like. I don’t suppose you hear it much.”

“No,” she says softly. “Not much.”

“The Dauphin will learn, surely?”

“He will learn. But it will not be his mother tongue.”

“I’ve made no decision,” d'Artagnan says quietly. He’s starting to feel oddly warm and uncomfortable.

“I would not accept one so soon, Charles – may I call you Charles?” He makes a noise of assent, and she continues, “I said you should take time, and I meant it. The palace is your home for so long as you like. Have you seen Rochefort?”

“I’ve seen no one but Constance and the others.”

“It’s early yet.” She looks down at his arm; he realises too late that, holding her arm like this, his wrist is visible. “Are you in pain, Charles?”

“No pain,” he says as evenly as he can.

“They are healing?”

“They are healed, your majesty.”

Anne flinches very slightly at that. “I am sorry.”

“There’s no pain,” he says again.

“There are many kinds of pain, Charles.”

d'Artagnan’s breath catches in his throat; he doesn’t realise he’s stopped walking until Anne says “Charles...” and then, rather more sharply, “Athos!”

Athos speaks to him, but d’Artagnan can’t hear the words over the ringing in his ears. After a moment there’s hands on his arm, dragging him across the lawn. d'Artagnan follows blindly, concentrating on trying to _breathe_. His vision is tunnelling, going black.

Someone is talking, steady and calm. d'Artagnan clings to the sound, though he can’t make out any words, trying desperately to get some air. There’s a hand on his back and another on his chest, trying to force him into a rhythm; d'Artagnan follows, as best he can, and the awful blockage in his throat eases just a little.

“…done, d'Artagnan, that’s good, keep breathing,” Athos is saying when he starts to hear him again. “Just breathe, follow my hands, good.”

d'Artagnan reaches up to grip his wrist tightly, grounding himself, trying to calm down. They’re on the ground, he realises distantly, huddled together awkwardly; it has to be uncomfortable, but he can’t figure out how to move yet. He concentrates on breathing instead.

“Good,” Athos says softly. “That’s good, d'Artagnan, come back. Breathe.”

Footsteps pound towards them; d'Artagnan flinches violently, curling against Athos for lack of anywhere else to go. “Easy,” Athos says sharply, and whoever’s coming at them slows and stops. “It’s Aramis,” he adds more gently. “Just Aramis. The queen sent for him. You’re fine.”

“What happened?” Aramis asks quietly, one hand on d'Artagnan’s shoulder. Athos doesn’t answer out loud, but Aramis says “Ah” as though something suddenly makes sense.

d'Artagnan tightens his grip on Athos’ wrist. “…ath…” He runs out of breath, closing his eyes in frustration.

“You’re fine, lad,” Athos says quietly. “Just breathe. It’s fine.”

“I’m going to get you something to drink,” Aramis tells him. “Keep breathing. You’ll be fine.”

Athos’ hands are still warm on his back and chest. d'Artagnan concentrates on them, on breathing in the rhythm Athos has set, trying not to let the panic flare again. Athos is mostly silent, now, only speaking to remind him to breathe, to slow down each time his breathing edges faster.

Aramis returns some uncountable length of time later, kneeling beside them. “d'Artagnan, can you manage this?” he asks softly. d'Artagnan doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t respond, and after a moment Aramis touches the back of his neck. “Lean back just a little,” he murmurs, helping d'Artagnan drink from a water skin. After a moment he lets it fall, pressing cool, wet fingers to d'Artagnan’s forehead and neck.

d'Artagnan’s exhausted, suddenly, slumping against Athos. His breathing’s more or less level now, but he can’t summon the energy to do anything.

“No, it’s fine,” Aramis says over his head. “You’ve seen this before, Athos. So have I. It looks a little different from this side, though.”

“I suppose it must do,” Athos agrees. “d'Artagnan, can you walk? We need to go inside.”

“Walk,” d'Artagnan repeats vaguely.

“I’d take that as a no,” Aramis suggests. “Here, d'Artagnan, drink a little more, all right?”

d'Artagnan shakes his head, pushing against Athos to try and see him. “Athos?”

“Yes.”

“It’s real?”

“What’s real?”

d'Artagnan glances around, unable to find the words. When he looks back, Athos is nodding. “This is really France, d'Artagnan, and you are really here.”

“Real,” he repeats.

“It’s real, d'Artagnan. You’re home.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next time d'Artagnan is aware of his surroundings, he’s sitting on the bed in his room. Aramis is sprawled on one of the cots. d'Artagnan shifts and Aramis raises his head, smiling broadly. “Welcome back.”

“Was I gone?” The words catch in a dry, raw throat, and he coughs to clear it.

“Yes, for a time. Only a short time,” Aramis adds quickly. “It’s the same day, but late at night. If I send for food, d'Artagnan, will you eat?”

d'Artagnan thinks about it. He doesn’t feel hungry, or anything much else – he’s oddly disconnected from his body – but it’s been most of a day since he ate anything. “I think so,” he says eventually.

“Good. I would have made you anyway, so I’m glad you agree.” Aramis grins at him, rolling off the cot and crossing to the door.

d'Artagnan glances around, picking up a cup from a tray nearby. Wine, not water, but it will do for now. “Did I scare the Queen?” he asks between sips.

Aramis comes to join him on the bed. “She was worried for you, not afraid.”

“Did I scare Athos?”

Silence for a moment, before Aramis repeats “Worried. Not afraid. Athos is on guard duty here at the palace, or he’d be with you.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t know why it happens, but I’ve seen it many times before. It happened to me, after Savoy. It’s – when you can’t afford to be afraid, it’s as though your body stores it until you can, and it’s much stronger for being delayed. Did someone say something to upset you?”

d'Artagnan blinks. “What?”

“No one hurts you if I have any power to stop it,” Aramis reminds him. “If someone said something…”

“I was talking to the _Queen_ , Aramis.”

“In Spanish, I heard.”

“Spanish doesn’t bother me, I talk to you in Spanish. The Queen didn’t upset me. She was very kind.”

“Kind,” Aramis echoes. His eyes are very sad. “Was there no one kind, d'Artagnan?”

“Who’s going to be kind to a jumped up French galley slave? The maids liked me well enough because I stopped the men from hurting them. That’s…that’s it.” He doesn’t mention the times Domingo was kind to him. He doesn’t think Aramis wants to hear that. 

He’s grateful for the disconnected sensation that’s allowing him to say these things without feeling them.

There’s a knock at the door. d'Artagnan stands when Aramis doesn’t move, nodding thanks to the maid and taking the tray back to the bed. “Is there always someone out there?”

Aramis shakes himself back into the present. “Until now there was, yes. We didn’t want to have to leave you alone until you woke up. I’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”

“A very boring job,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

“Much easier than working downstairs, though. You’re not a very demanding mmm – guest.”

“I’m sure Porthos and Athos are making up for me,” d'Artagnan says, refusing to acknowledge Aramis’ slip. “Is it going to happen again?”

Aramis doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “Maybe. Some people only ever have one attack. Some have them more often than that.”

“You?”

“The first year after Savoy I had several. They eased after that. I had one after Marsac, but none since then. And none for a couple of years before that, either.”

“I didn’t know,” d'Artagnan says softly.

“You were new then. We kept it from you. My decision. I’m sorry.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head absently. “Don’t be.”

“If you need to, you’ll learn to know when one’s coming on. Sometimes you can delay it a little, if you need to get away. But it may never happen again. It’s not something to worry about.”

“And if I delay it, it’s worse when it hits?”

“Usually.”

d'Artagnan pushes his plate away. “I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you are.” Aramis stands, tidying the food away.

“Aramis.”

“Mmm?”

“I would like privacy tonight.” It’s hard to ask, but he thinks Aramis will go along with him.

Aramis studies him for a moment. “I can sleep on the cot.” d'Artagnan shakes his head. “d'Artagnan…”

“I’m not going to hurt myself. I’m not going to _do_ anything. I just want to be on my own. Please.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Aramis says quietly. “I can leave, but Athos is on guard here and if I’m not here, he’ll check on you during the night.”

“Yes.” He’s too tired to argue that.

Aramis nods. “I’ll come back in the morning, if that’s all right.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Aramis lets himself out, closing the door. d'Artagnan rolls over and is asleep almost at once, and if he senses someone touching his hair gently during the night, the memory is gone by the time he wakes up.

 

The others return to the garrison. d'Artagnan stays at the palace. He doesn’t think he can face the Musketeers yet; they think he’s some kind of hero, serving the last year and a half for King and Country, and it’s not true. He knows it’s not, whatever the others say.

He still sees at least one of them every day, sometimes all of them. Treville seeks him out whenever he’s in the palace, though the conversations are awkward and stilted and eventually fall into routine. One of the others is on palace duty every day; when d'Artagnan queries it, he’s told they’re still easing back in after their time away. It’s a lie, but it’s kindly meant, so he doesn’t push.

Aramis has kept his word and the permanent servant outside d'Artagnan’s room is gone. A maid comes to straighten up every day, a page boy comes morning and evening with food and fresh water, and between times any servant d'Artagnan stops is happy to help him with anything he needs. He tries not to stop them. He doesn't need much.

d'Artagnan spends a lot of time in the gardens. Sometimes alone, sometimes with one of the others, sometimes with the Queen. Having nothing to do is odd, but the couple of times he tries to help the gardeners he makes them so uncomfortable he gives up. Athos brings him books; Porthos brings him cards. He spends a lot of time dozing, though he never actually feels especially tired.

Perhaps a week after he collapsed in front of the Queen, d'Artagnan is dozing under a tree when someone walks directly up to him. He lowers his arm from his eyes to see Rochefort; inwardly grimacing, he pulls himself up to sit. “Comte.”

“d'Artagnan,” Rochefort returns, outwardly amiable. “Don’t disturb yourself.”

A little late now, after he’s already moved. d'Artagnan keeps his expression neutral without conscious thought. Neutrality is easy, now; showing what he’s feeling is harder.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asks politely.

Rochefort’s eyes narrow, and d'Artagnan remembers that he’d never been polite to him before. “No,” he says slowly. “Rather the reverse, I think.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know if you were informed, but there’s a substantial amount of back pay waiting for you.”

“I was told,” d'Artagnan agrees. “Can you make arrangements to have it sent to Lupiac?”

“Lupiac,” Rochefort repeats.

“In Gascony. I own land there, and it’s been lying empty since LaBarge destroyed it. My headman is Tristan Delacroix. He will use the money well.”

“It’s a substantial amount.”

“I don’t need it. Thank you.”

Rochefort nods slowly. “I will make the arrangements. What would you like to do with your ongoing pay?”

“My pay,” d'Artagnan echoes. “Send it to Captain Treville, please, as normal.”

Rochefort inclines his head. d'Artagnan thinks about standing up – he doesn’t like having Rochefort towering over him like this – but he stays seated.

“The mission was hard on you,” Rochefort says, studying him.

“I’m not allowed to talk about the mission in even the smallest detail without the king’s express permission,” d'Artagnan says automatically. It’s even true; it’s one of the few real orders he’s been given since his return.

“Of course. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the king.”

d'Artagnan stands, brushing absently at his trousers. “I’m due to meet with the Queen, Comte. Was there anything else you needed?”

“No, no. Don’t keep her waiting on my behalf.”

Rochefort trails along with him. d'Artagnan doesn’t dare speed up; he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying to escape, though that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“It’s odd, you know,” Rochefort muses.

“What is?”

“You and your brothers have just returned from Spain – don’t give me that look, you were never fluent in Spanish before – and I’ve just had an interesting report from one of my contacts there.”

“Oh?” d'Artagnan speeds up, just a little.

“Yes, I’m told that for the last year and a half there’s been a French soldier serving a Spanish lord.”

“There are mercenaries from every country in every other country.”

“Yes, that’s true. The timing intrigues me, though. And apparently this soldier was especially skilled.”

They’ve reached the garden the Queen favours, and she smiles when she sees him, waving him close. 

“Excuse me, Rochefort,” d'Artagnan says politely, walking away without looking back. He folds himself easily onto the ground beside her chair, watching from the corner of his eye as Rochefort fades away.

“How are you feeling today, Charles?” Anne asks kindly.

“I’m well, thank you.” He answers in Spanish, as is his habit nowadays.

The Dauphin toddles over, sitting heavily in d'Artagnan’s lap, and he smiles. “Now, little one, that’s not polite,” he scolds gently, still in Spanish.

“Charl,” the boy says.

“Yes, that’s me,” d'Artagnan agrees. “Are you behaving, your highness?”

“Bird.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Anne is smiling as she watches. Constance is watching curiously; d'Artagnan glances up to smile at her, and she smiles back.

“Now, your highness,” he says, in French this time, “can you say ‘Constance’?”

“Tan.”

“Not quite, but close. Cons-tance.” He looks up suddenly. “Unless he should be calling you Madame Bonacieux.”

“That’s a little formal for a child who’s not yet two,” Constance points out.

“All right.” He jogs the Dauphin again. “What about ‘pretty’? Can you say pretty?”

“Preey.”

“Very close,” he says with a smile.

“Dog,” the Dauphin offers, holding up a small toy.

“That certainly is a dog,” d'Artagnan agrees.

“Charl dog?”

“No, it’s yours, thank you.”

The Dauphin wriggles free, wandering off towards a flower bed. Constance goes to keep an eye on him, carefully redirecting him when he tries to rip up the plants.

“You’re very good with him,” Anne murmurs in Spanish.

“He’s easy to be good with, your majesty.”

“I saw Rochefort following you,” she continues placidly.

“We were discussing the issue of my back pay. I suppose he just had to come this way to get to wherever he was going.” It’s a spectacularly weak lie, but he doesn’t think she’ll push.

“I see. What are you planning to buy? New weapons?”

“No, your majesty. I have – Athos has – my sword and dagger, and I’ll get a pistol from the Musketeer armoury when I go back to duty. I don’t need weapons.”

“What, then?”

d'Artagnan watches the ladies play with the Dauphin for several minutes. “My father had a farm in Gascony. I inherited it when he died, and I left a headman in place to run it for me while I served here.”

She doesn’t speak as he struggles for the next words.

“LaBarge destroyed it during his rampage. I sent what money I could, but I was newly commissioned, then. I didn’t have much. Tristan found other employment, and so did the men who worked for him – Rochefort tells me I have a substantial sum. I’ve asked him to send it to Tristan to rebuild the farm with.”

“It’s very kind of you,” she murmurs.

“It’s not. It’s far less than they deserve. They were loyal to me when I gave them no reason, and…”

He has to stop, closing his eyes as he feels the block in his throat start to grow again.

“Charles,” Anne murmurs. “Should I call for Aramis? Or one of the others?”

“No,” he manages. “Please just talk, your majesty.”

She does, telling him quietly about the Dauphin and about Louis’ attempts to be a better king and about missions the Musketeers have been on, as far as she knows about them. She must have made some kind of signal to someone, because footsteps approach and then leave and she pushes a water skin into his hands. The lump in his throat doesn’t progress, and he can feel himself starting to relax.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Constance’s shout is the only warning he has before the child flings himself at his back. d'Artagnan manages not to throw him off, but it’s close. Anne, obviously seeing it, reaches down to separate them.

“Charl,” the boy protests, reaching back for him. “Charl!”

“Not right now,” Anne starts, but d'Artagnan shakes his head.

“No, your majesty, it’s fine. I can see him; it’s fine. Let him go.” Anne lets him go and the boy runs to d'Artagnan, climbing back into his lap.

Constance kneels beside them, carefully in d'Artagnan’s sight line, and he smiles faintly. “Your dress, Constance.”

“You’re very concerned with my wardrobe, d'Artagnan,” she retorts, and though it sounds like she’s smiling, her face is serious. “He scared you.”

“I wasn’t paying attention; I didn’t hear him coming. It’s nothing.” d'Artagnan glances down at the boy, happily occupied in playing with the string on his tunic. “It’s fine, Constance. I told you, I’m still on guard, but it’s getting better.”

“Could you never relax?” she asks softly.

“I can’t talk about the mission,” he says wearily. He’s sorry, this time. He’d like to tell Constance at least some of it. Not the details, of course, but the general sense of it.

“No. I’m sorry.”

He glances down as the Dauphin lets go of the thread to play with his sleeves. “Don’t do that, your highness.” The Dauphin ignores him, and he shifts, trying to free the material.

“Here…” Constance reaches to help, but the Dauphin has pulled one sleeve up above the scars.

The boy stares at the scars, eyes wide. Constance is doing her best not to look like she’s staring, but she can’t hide her reaction, not from d'Artagnan.

“Ouchie,” the Dauphin says suddenly.

d'Artagnan looks down at him, blinking. “Pardon?”

“Ouchie,” he says more confidently. Pulling at his breeches, he finds a mostly healed scrape on his knee. “Ouchie.” Back to d'Artagnan’s wrist. “Ouchie.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “It’s an ouchie.”

The Dauphin pats at his other wrist; d'Artagnan shifts his grip, shaking his sleeve back for the boy. “Ouchie,” he says sadly. Looking up suddenly, he pats d'Artagnan’s face. “No sad.”

“No sad,” d'Artagnan agrees, pulling his sleeves back down.

The Dauphin rolls off his lap, searching the grass around them before finding a daisy and bringing it to him. “No sad.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says solemnly, taking the flower from him. The boy grins, sadness forgotten, and turns to run towards the ladies.

Constance takes the flower, tucking it carefully into his hair. “No sad, d'Artagnan.” He smiles, catching her hand as she withdraws it and pressing a kiss into her palm. “I know you can’t tell me – but if you want to talk, or just to sit, I’m here.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She smiles sadly, squeezing his hand gently before going after the Dauphin. d'Artagnan leans back against Anne’s chair, blowing out a long breath.

“I’m sorry,” she offers.

“It doesn’t matter.”


	3. Chapter 3

Twelve days after his return to Paris, d'Artagnan goes to the garrison in the morning. There are several recruits and Musketeers he doesn’t recognise, a couple of Musketeers who were recruits the last time he was here. He sees Thierry coming out of the stables; the other man blinks in surprise and then tips his head in deference. d'Artagnan acknowledges it awkwardly, heading up the stairs to Treville’s office.

Treville shouts a come in without looking up from his paperwork; d'Artagnan shifts awkwardly until he finally looks up. “d'Artagnan,” he says in surprise, rising to his feet. “You should have sent word.”

“Fuss,” d'Artagnan says with a shrug.

“How can I help you?”

“I wanted to start training again, sir.”

Treville studies him for a moment. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“I think there’s one way to find out. Sir.”

"It doesn't have to be here."

"I trained his men with sword and dagger, sir. There won't be a problem."

"Pistols?"

"That's – that should be somewhere else, I think. At least the first time."

"Hand to hand?"

"I don't know."

Treville nods slowly. "I'm told you suffered some scarring. Does it impede you?"

d'Artagnan grimaces, but he'd expected this question. "There's no pain, but I can't turn or bend as quickly as I used to." A serious blow, he knows; his advantage was always his speed and flexibility. Treville nods thoughtfully; d'Artagnan bites his lip hard enough to hurt and then turns his back, fumbling at the laces on his jerkin.

"d'Artagnan, you don't have to –“

He ignores the half-formed protest, dropping his jerkin and lifting his tunic as high as he can.

There's silence for a moment. Treville carefully pushes the tunic a little higher on one side. Unlike Aramis and Athos, he doesn't touch the scars themselves. "I can see why bending might be difficult," he notes. The clinical tone makes things easier for d'Artagnan; the others had been so angry, so pained, it was difficult for him to stay calm. "You said there's no pain?"

"No. Sometimes, if I'm – if it's stretched too much. I don't think that will be a problem here."

"And you'll let us know if that changes?"

Despite the tone, that's an order. d'Artagnan nods.

"They didn't become infected at any point?"

"No, the – care was taken. It didn't suit Domingo to have me ill."

Treville steps away. d'Artagnan lets his tunic fall back into place and bends to retrieve his jerkin, though he doesn't put it on yet.

"What about your wrists?"

"Much the same. No pain, some reduced movement." He shakes back his sleeves to let Treville see.

"You'll have to pin those back for training, you know."

d'Artagnan doesn't allow himself to react. Treville studies his wrists for a moment longer before stepping back. "Athos is downstairs by now. Tell him he's off parade duty for today, and to come and see me tonight."

"Yes, sir."

"And d'Artagnan," Treville adds. "If anything you're doing causes pain beyond the norm, stop it immediately. That's normal training pain, not whatever your normal is now. Understand?"

d'Artagnan's not sure he'd recognise normal training pain now, but he nods obediently. "Thank you, sir."

"Go on, then."

He hesitates at the door. “Sir?”

“d'Artagnan?”

“Rochefort – “ d'Artagnan moves back towards the desk. “He’s – I don’t know what he knows, but he’s fishing. He knows that a French soldier’s just left service with a Spanish lord. I don’t think he knows it was me, but…”

Treville nods slowly. “Can he find out?”

“Anyone he can talk to there knows me as Charles, but Louis has been calling me that since I got back. I’m not – I don’t know. Maybe.”

Another nod, more brisk. “Don’t worry about it yet. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, sir.” d'Artagnan turns away again, letting himself out.

The yard falls silent as d'Artagnan comes down the stairs. Despite himself, despite knowing exactly where he is, he has to stop two or three steps up to check for danger; the silence caused by many men keeping quiet has not been good for him in a long time.

"I know you've got work to do," Porthos says suddenly. It's probably not that loud, but it sounds like a cannon going off in d'Artagnan's ears. "And you should be on guard, you ain’t finished with that horse...and you, hop it and tell Serge I need another serving out here. Move!"

It isn't aimed at him, but d'Artagnan jerks into motion anyway, coming down the last three steps and crossing to join Porthos. "The others?" he asks, trying to sound calm.

"Be here in a second," Porthos promises him. "Here, shove down." He nudges d'Artagnan to push him down the bench a bit; there's a support post at his back, now, and he can see most of the yard. It's not completely sheltered – the space behind the beam is open – but it's as good as it's going to get.

"Thank you," he breathes, resting his hands on the table and keeping them still with an effort.

"If you'd told us you were coming we'd've met you," Porthos tells him.

"I know you would have," d'Artagnan agrees.

Porthos watches him for a moment. "Taking it back?"

"Little steps."

"Best way to do it. What's on for today?"

"Training with Athos." His hands have stopped trembling and he relaxes some.

"Won't ask if you're sure," Porthos murmurs. "Just him?"

"For today. You and Aramis – it shouldn't be here; I don't know what will happen."

"You'll be fine."

"I will," d'Artagnan agrees.

Aramis drops to sit opposite them, beaming at d'Artagnan. "Morning."

"Morning, Aramis," d'Artagnan answers. "Good night?" His smile broadens, and d'Artagnan frowns. "What happened to Marguerite? I haven't seen her at the palace."

"She went home to marry," Aramis says breezily. "A good match, with a man known to be kind."

"Good," d'Artagnan murmurs. He'd barely known the girl, but Aramis had seemed fond of her. "Where's Athos?"

"Just behind me. Is that why you're here?"

"Time to start, I think."

Aramis nods briskly. "We can go somewhere, if you want."

"I can't. Not now that I'm here, they'll think..."

Serge stomps over, lowering a tray onto the table. "Good to see you back," he tells d'Artagnan. "Eat; you're far too skinny."

d'Artagnan smiles faintly. "Thank you, Serge."

“You were missed.”

“I missed being here.”

Serge stumps off back to the kitchen. d'Artagnan busies himself with the oatmeal, ignoring the silent conversation Aramis and Porthos are having over his head. Once he could have followed it without looking; now he has to pay attention, and he doesn’t care that much right now.

Athos joins them without drawing any attention to d'Artagnan, eating his own breakfast before speaking. “What brings you here, d'Artagnan?”

“Training.” d'Artagnan pushes his plate away. “You’re excused from parade duty for today, and Treville will want to see you this evening.”

Athos nods thoughtfully. “Very well. Your weapons are in my rooms; I’ll fetch them. Wait for me.”

d'Artagnan nods, shifting slightly so he’s partly leaning against Porthos. Porthos takes his weight without comment, chatting idly with Aramis about their duties for the day. d'Artagnan listens, but more to the tone than the actual words, picking absently at the remains of breakfast.

Athos returns a few minutes later with a bundle under one arm. d'Artagnan deliberately does not look around as he rolls his sleeves up, reaching for the bundle to help unwrap it. His cloak and pauldron are inside; he sets them aside, lifting out his sword belt. His sword and dagger are packed separately; he considers the belt for a moment and then leaves it down, picking up his blades.

The others watch as he backs into the practise space, swinging the blades carefully in each hand, reminding himself of their weight and heft. After a couple of minutes he looks up at Athos, nodding.

There are other Musketeers watching. Treville is on the balcony. d'Artagnan pretends to ignore all of them, focusing on Athos’ movements, reacquainting himself with his mentor’s style. It doesn’t take long before they’re all but flying across the yard, attacking and defending by turns.

A sudden twist sends a flare of pain across d'Artagnan’s back; he drops to one knee, holding up a hand to ward Athos off. Aramis jumps off the table to join him, crouching beside him. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

“Pulled it,” d'Artagnan mutters. “It’s fine. I just need a minute.”

“Time for a break anyway,” Athos announces, holding out a hand to help him up. “That was excellent, d'Artagnan. Your skills don’t seem to have suffered at all.”

“I was on occasion fighting for my life,” d'Artagnan says dryly, leaning on Aramis as they head back to the table.

"Does that happen often?" Athos asks, waving vaguely at him.

"No. It's some time since I've had a workout like that. Domingo's men weren't – Aramis, _please_ don't." Aramis hesitates, one hand on the base of d'Artagnan's tunic. "Nothing is torn. Nothing is bleeding. It just pulled."

"You're certain?"

"Nothing is bleeding. Treville said I had to stop when something hurt, or I'd have kept going. Aramis, _let me go_."

Aramis very carefully lets go, backing up a little. d'Artagnan waves off the concern from Athos, reaching across the table for Porthos' tankard and drinking deeply.

When he can't avoid it any more, he looks at Athos. "Ready to go again?"

"d'Artagnan –“

"There are Musketeers watching," he says, so softly they can barely hear him. "I can't stop now."

"If you need to stop, you can stop."

He smiles bitterly. "Something I'm very good at now. I don't stop. Are you ready?"

Athos studies him carefully. "Stances, I think. Come along."

 

He’s still living in the palace. The others haven’t asked him why. Porthos turned up after they'd been gone a few days with the handful of belongings he’d left at the garrison, and with the extra cots out and a small desk in, the room seems as much like home as the garrison did.

Practise with Aramis goes far better than d'Artagnan had hoped, and he starts carrying a pistol when he's not in the palace. As though to balance it, though, hand to hand with Porthos goes terribly. d'Artagnan finds himself either freezing up or lashing out wildly almost every time. Porthos calls a halt when it becomes clear d'Artagnan is only frustrating himself.

"Rochefort spent five years in Spanish hands. He wasn't one fifth as affected!" d'Artagnan drops to sit on the grass, staring straight ahead.

Porthos hunkers beside him. "Rochefort was a prisoner, not a slave. And he's titled, he would have been fairly comfortable."

"Still."

"Still nothing. You said his men jumped you?"

"Often on the ship. Sometimes at the estate. A lot of –“ He gestures vaguely. "Training accidents."

"They tried to help when you had the cuffs, Aramis said."

d'Artagnan shakes his head. "That was about the cuffs, not about me. It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it."

"Porthos..."

"It'll help. It makes it lighter. It's heavy, isn't it, everything you're carrying around? Let me have this bit."

"I can't..." d'Artagnan shoves both hands through his hair. "I was at Domingo's right hand. He valued me, they all knew it. If he put those things on me, he might have done it to anyone. And if they went easy on me, maybe I'd go easy on them."

"Did he?"

"Never. And only that once on me. That was to punish Aramis, not me."

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "You trained them."

"Not in hand to hand. Only with weapons."

"Why?"

"Wasn't my place to ask," he says vaguely.

"Right. Well..." Porthos shifts slightly, suddenly leaning over him. "This bother you?"

"Porthos..."

"Does it?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan says through gritted teeth. "You're bigger than me and you have the advantage from there."

"You said that when his men attacked you, you put them down."

"Yes."

"Put me down."

"Porthos, I was trying to disable them. One of them's still walking with a limp."

"Try and disable me. Come on." Porthos leans in further; d'Artagnan's trembling now. Even knowing exactly what Porthos is doing, knowing that he would never actually hurt him, he can't silence the part of his brain that's screaming at him to get _away_. "Come on, d'Artagnan, all you've got to do is get me down, I'm right here..."

d'Artagnan snaps a kick at Porthos' knee and he goes down, but he catches d'Artagnan's arm on the way and they end up wrestling in the mud. Porthos makes a pretence at actual wrestling until d'Artagnan goes limp, collapsing against him and shaking with the force of his sobs. Porthos immediately switches his grip, holding him steady without constricting him in any way, and lets him sob.

 

Things get a little better after that. Not straight away, but in little bits. Training with Athos and Aramis is almost effortless. Training with Porthos is harder, but it only makes him feel prouder of every advance.

He’s been back in Paris almost a month when he holds Aramis back after training. “I need a favour.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you to spar with me.”

“Athos would –“

“And I need you to shout at me in Spanish while you’re doing it. Actually, I need you to shout at me in Spanish all the time, but let’s start with while sparring.”

“Do you think it will matter?”

“I think I’d rather find out from you.”

Aramis nods slowly. “What do you want me to say?”

d'Artagnan does not flinch. “Tell me to stop. Tell me I’ll be punished. Threaten me. Be loud and angry.”

“Was he?”

“Sometimes.”

“All right. Not now,” he adds. “The others will be waiting. The next time we’re due to train, we’ll do this.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “It’s not fair to you. But I can’t ask anyone else.”

“Anything you need,” Aramis says firmly. “Would you like me to jump out at you from around corners and shout at you, too?”

d'Artagnan smiles without meaning to. “One thing at a time.”

The first time is a disaster. d'Artagnan doesn’t drop his weapons – quite – but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on ignoring the Spanish and fight at the same time. Aramis pulls a lot of blows and d'Artagnan's still more bruised than normal when they stop.

The second time, Aramis brings Porthos along, and d'Artagnan does better. He still doesn’t win, mostly, but it’s better. Aramis doesn't pull any blows this time.

The day after that, Aramis joins the hand to hand and shouts at d'Artagnan the whole time. It’s not as bad as the first session, but it’s bad enough, and Porthos stops it early.

“He shout at you a lot?” he asks, when d'Artagnan has taken some water and washed his face and seems calmer.

“Not him, the others. Domingo just – went quiet, usually. He didn't need to be loud. The others, his men –“ d'Artagnan shrugs. “It’s getting easier.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Aramis advises him brightly. “As soon as you can hold your own fighting, I’m going to start jumping around corners at you.”

d'Artagnan smiles, pushing to his feet. “One more try, Porthos?”

“One,” Porthos agrees. “And you’re buying the drinks tonight.”

It’s the first time he’s gone out with them since his return, and even though he restricts himself to one drink, it’s the best night he’s had in some time.

He meets the Queen in the garden the next morning, obligingly plays with the Dauphin, smiling and teasing him in Spanish. Constance smiles as she watches them.

"You seem well today, d'Artagnan," Anne says quietly, when the Dauphin has wandered away with three ladies in pursuit.

"I feel well today, your majesty."

"Things are getting better?"

"Much better. Soon I think I'll be ready to speak with Treville about returning to the Musketeers. And I will have an answer for you, your majesty."

"I told you that would wait until you felt ready."

"And I will, soon."

Constance walks back to the palace with him, ostensibly to fetch something for the Queen but really because Anne likes to see them together. "Can you teach me Spanish, d'Artagnan?"

“You want to learn Spanish?”

“It makes the Queen so happy when you speak with her and the Dauphin. Why did you learn?”

“For the mission.”

“Yes, of course,” she agrees.

“I’d tell you if I could,” he murmurs, but it’s not true anymore. He wouldn’t burden Constance with this for anything.

“I know,” she agrees. “I just hope you’re telling someone. You’re carrying a lot of weight these days.”

d'Artagnan smiles faintly. “That’s what Porthos said.”

“I’ve always said Porthos was very clever.”

d'Artagnan smiles more broadly. “I’m expected at the garrison after lunch. Tomorrow? First lesson?”

“Tomorrow,” Constance agrees. “Can we keep it a secret from her majesty? Just for a little while?”

d'Artagnan considers for a moment. “I won’t lie to her,” he says eventually. “But as long as she doesn’t actually say ‘d'Artagnan, are you teaching Constance to speak Spanish’ I won’t tell her.”

“That sounds fair,” Constance agrees. Smiling, she reaches up to cup d'Artagnan’s face in her hands, tugging gently until he bends and she can place a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, watching her go.

That evening he receives a summons to attend on Louis immediately.


	4. Chapter 4

d'Artagnan has only seen the King in passing since that first day. Regular inquires after his health come from any one of Louis’ interchangeable manservants, and d'Artagnan always sends back news that he’s doing well without going into any detail.

Tonight a page boy bows him into the King’s sitting room. Rochefort is leaning against the wall by the window; d'Artagnan acknowledges him vaguely, turning to bow to Louis.

“Charles,” Louis says cheerfully. “I hear your training is going well.”

d'Artagnan wonders idly how much the others are telling Treville and how much he’s telling Louis. “It’s getting easier, certainly,” he agrees.

“Good, good. And you have everything you need?”

“Her majesty has been most generous, your majesty, and most careful of my needs.” He catches the tail end of a sneer from Rochefort and ignores it.

“Good,” Louis repeats. “I must ask you a favour, Charles.”

“I’m yours to command, your majesty.”

Louis glances at Rochefort, who takes a couple of steps forward. “A party of Spanish traders are coming here to the palace to negotiate trading rights with my office. My story is well known in Spain; likewise, your friend Aramis’ fluency. You, however, are unknown. They may let their guard down around you.”

d'Artagnan frowns. “You want to assign me as their guard and see if I can overhear anything important.”

“King Philip himself has sent these men, we cannot leave them unprotected here in the palace.”

“Can you do it, Charles?” Louis asks.

“Yes, your majesty,” d'Artagnan says automatically. “May I request Athos as additional security?”

“Only Athos?”

“If you think they may know Aramis, it can’t be him, and Porthos knows some Spanish now and would find it harder not to react to anything he might hear. If Athos needs to be spelled, send for another Musketeer, someone who doesn’t know any Spanish. How many in the party?”

Rochefort shakes his head. “We know of three, but they will bring servants and possibly a guard. I’m awaiting a message from the escort I sent to meet them.” He raises an eyebrow. “Can you work with a Spanish guard?”

“Will he speak French?” d'Artagnan asks pointedly. “Then I can work with him. Let me know when you get your message.” He bows briefly to Louis, turning to let himself out.

He doesn’t sleep that night. First thing in the morning he has a message sent to Constance to apologise and heads for the garrison. Treville is already up and d'Artagnan explains the King’s request.

“I had heard there was a visit coming up, but Rochefort has been keeping it quiet,” Treville muses. “You asked for Athos?”

“Rochefort doesn’t want Aramis anywhere near it, and if they do say something they shouldn’t and Porthos overhears…Athos will be better able to keep from reacting.” Treville eyes him; d'Artagnan shakes his head faintly. “I won’t react either.”

“Hmm.” Treville frowns at his desk briefly. “You’re doing this as a Musketeer?”

d'Artagnan stops short. “I – I didn’t think of that. I suppose I’ll have to if Athos is there.”

“Why so reluctant, d'Artagnan?”

It’s the same clinical tone he’d used when examining d'Artagnan’s scars; it makes it easier for d'Artagnan to tell him “I wanted to be sure I could do it.”

“Can you?”

Still clinical, still almost disinterested. “I think so,” d'Artagnan says honestly. “I’ve been working with the others. It’s still hard, but it’s getting easier.”

“So I hear. If you think you can’t do this, d'Artagnan, better to say it now.”

“If I can’t do it, Rochefort will turn it against the Musketeers.”

“We can deal with Rochefort. d'Artagnan…”

“I can do it. I _can_ ,” he insists. “And besides, this mission probably won’t need any fighting. It’s only listening.”

“True enough,” Treville agrees. “And there will be other Musketeers around.” He crosses to a chest, rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out a bundle of blue cloth.

d'Artagnan touches it gently, unable to look at Treville. “I thought Athos had this.”

“He has your pauldron. He was very insistent.” Treville pushes the cloth gently at d'Artagnan. “Go on. They’ll be downstairs by now. Make sure no one else overhears, until we’re officially told about the mission we shouldn’t know.”

d'Artagnan pulls the cloak on, tying it nimbly into place and tugging gently to settle it. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on,” Treville repeats.

The yard falls silent again when d'Artagnan comes down the stairs wearing Musketeer blue. This time he doesn’t stop, although he does move around the table to sit with his back to the support beam.

“Looks good on you,” Aramis says cheerfully. “Special occasion?”

d'Artagnan explains the assignment quietly over breakfast. Aramis accepts his dismissal easily. Porthos is less sure, until Athos says he’ll make sure Porthos is in the party assigned to the palace during the visit. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks d'Artagnan.

“I’m sure that if I don’t, Rochefort will find a way to turn the King against me.”

“He can’t do it,” Aramis says, shaking his head. “Not any more. Louis no longer follows his ministers blindly.”

“Louis _asked_ for me. If this is the way to make the last year and a half worth something…” d'Artagnan shrugs.

Aramis grins suddenly. “Looks like I really had better start jumping around corners at you.”

And he does.

 

Three days before the Spanish are expected, Aramis startles d'Artagnan in the stables, shouting cheerfully about all the things he’s going to do to him.

“…and boil it till it bursts!” he finishes, waving at the stable boy.

d'Artagnan raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, well. I’m running out of things to shout at you. How do you feel?”

“I’ll be coming to you next time I need revenge on someone, that’s for sure. Do they really burst when you boil them?”

“Possibly. Is that really the point?” d'Artagnan smiles, and Aramis grins widely. “Come sit with us for a minute.”

“Why?”

Aramis switches to French. “We have something for you.”

“Oh?”

Aramis’ smile fades. “It’s Athos’ idea.”

“What’s wrong?” d'Artagnan asked warily.

Aramis shakes his head. “Remember it’s a gift. You can refuse it. Say it.”

“A gift I can refuse,” d'Artagnan repeats automatically.

Aramis waves him to join the others at the table. Athos waits until he’s sitting and then leans forward to grip his arm lightly. Well used to this by now, d'Artagnan holds himself still as Athos folds his sleeve back. “Hold still a moment,” Athos murmurs.

Something encircles d'Artagnan’s wrist and he jerks back instinctively. Athos’ grip tightens and Aramis says quickly “d'Artagnan. Calm. You’re fine.”

d'Artagnan focuses, looking down at his wrist. A leather gauntlet is half strapped on, covering the scarring completely. Athos waits until he looks up and nods to finish lacing it on.

He lets go as soon as it’s on and d'Artagnan pulls back, turning his wrist to examine it. The leather matches his pauldron in colour, plain and unadorned, and it covers the scars. He twists his hand a couple of times to check his range of motion. It stops at the base of his hand, only covering that one portion of his wrist.

“They just tie on,” Aramis murmurs. “You can take them off if you want.”

“You can,” Athos agrees. “If you want.”

“No.” d'Artagnan turns his wrist again. The leather’s lighter than his old cuffs, but the feel is familiar.

Porthos’ fingers close around his arm, just above the leather. “d'Artagnan. You can take them off.”

“Yes.”

Porthos curses softly, looking at Athos. “Athos…”

“No,” d'Artagnan interrupts him, dragging his attention back to them. “No, it’s – I understand, what they’re for. I’m fine. I just need a minute.” He fiddles with the laces, testing the tension, trying to banish the memory of iron around his wrists. No one speaks, and after a minute he holds his other arm out. Athos fastens the second gauntlet on with fingers that do not shake.

 

d'Artagnan’s on the dais when the Spanish party arrive, pauldron heavy on his shoulder. Athos is by his side but down on the floor, watching carefully as the three traders and four other men march in.

d'Artagnan stiffens, turning to Athos. “Close the hall.”

“What?”

“Close the hall! Get everyone out, _now_!” He turns to the King, catching him rising from his seat. “Sit down, your majesty.”

“Charles –“

“Henri! Sit _down_.” Glancing past him at Anne, he adds quickly, “Your majesty, please don’t react until…”

A window shatters somewhere behind them, and d'Artagnan jerks Louis out of the seat. Athos is behind him, Anne tucked under his arm, and Rochefort is on their heels as the room descends into chaos.

Athos pauses at the door of the ante room to shout something to Porthos, still in the main hall, and then draws the door closed. “What is going on?” he demands.

“You didn’t recognise him.” d'Artagnan almost laughs. “Comte de Rochefort, you can’t be here right now.”

“Pardon me?” Rochefort demands. “You do not –“

“It’s about the _mission_ ,” d'Artagnan says over him. This isn’t going to help stop Rochefort’s suspicions, but he doesn’t care about that right now. “Your majesty…”

“Yes.” Louis draws himself up, though he’s still far too pale. “He’s right, Rochefort. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. Assure our Spanish friends that measures are being taken, and that we will reconvene shortly. I assume we’re not actually under attack?” he adds to Athos.

“No one is in danger,” Athos half answers.

“Good. Rochefort, go. I will send for you shortly. Make sure none of the party attempts to leave,” he adds.

Rochefort scowls, but he bows and leaves. Athos leans out briefly to speak to Porthos, now on guard just outside the door; coming back in, he turns to Anne. “Your majesty, Constance is outside, she’s very worried for you. Porthos can escort you both to your rooms.”

“Not until I know what’s happening,” Anne says firmly. “Tell her I’m fine and I’ll be with her directly.”

Athos nods, speaks briefly to Porthos and closes the door, coming back to join d'Artagnan. “d'Artagnan?”

d'Artagnan smiles bitterly. “Domingo’s in the Spanish group.”

“What?”

“He won’t be for long, I’ll have him killed,” Louis snaps.

“No,” d'Artagnan says evenly.

“He uses French slaves! We have proof!”

“No, we don’t.”

“We were there!”

“We weren’t. You have never been on a galley, _Henri_. You weren’t rescued from Spain; you were ill, here, at the palace, all the time. And I was on a mission with Athos and the others. You can’t _touch_ him.”

Louis is staring at him. “That man had you flogged. He had you _beaten_.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” d'Artagnan says impatiently.

“Why would he risk coming here?” Athos says thoughtfully. “He knows who he had. He has to know one of you will recognise him. Why is he here?”

“Probably because his King ordered him to, and he can’t refuse,” d'Artagnan points out. “What would he say? He can’t tell anyone we were there any more than we can.”

“He could,” Anne protests.

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “He had the King of France in his hands, free and clear, and gave him up for the service of a Musketeer he let go anyway? Philip would _kill_ him. He won’t speak.” Anne pales, and d'Artagnan shifts. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but I believe I’m right.”

Anne lifts her chin. “Yes. I suspect you are. Turmoil in France would be more beneficial to my brother than the gratitude of my husband.”

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan repeats. Anne shakes her head.

“So I am supposed to just let him go?” Louis asks. “Exact no revenge, allow him to swan about my palace?”

“As much as any of them were to be allowed to swan, yes,” d'Artagnan agrees. “You’ll need to assign another guard. Domingo won’t let them speak freely around me.”

Louis studies him for a moment. “I can have him removed from the group. Rochefort will know a way to do it without insulting Spain.”

“No,” d'Artagnan says quietly. “Not – if you think you can deal with him, _without_ shouting or threatening him, then leave him alone. There’s no point in letting him know he’s rattled us. Just go on exactly as you meant to, and assign someone else.”

Anne has been thinking. Now she says carefully, “d'Artagnan, he can’t expose you to the others, can he? He can warn them, but he can’t say for sure that you know Spanish.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere near him,” Athos says softly, warningly.

“I’m not afraid of him,” d'Artagnan says absently. “No, your majesty, he can’t, but I think it would be safer to assign someone else anyway.”

Porthos knocks on the door, leaning in. “Your pardon, your majesty, Rochefort is very anxious to talk to you.”

“Rochefort can wait!” Louis snaps. “I told him I’d send for him when I was ready!”

“Yes sir,” Porthos agrees, withdrawing and closing the door.

d'Artagnan takes a step away from the others, rubbing both hands briskly over his face. “Her majesty is right,” he says abruptly. “Domingo can’t say anything to the others; I’m still your best chance.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere near him,” Athos repeats.

d'Artagnan makes a face at him. “King and country. Let me do it.”

Louis sighs. "I always seem to end up asking too much of you, Charles."

"Nothing you ask me is too much, Henri."

"This is too much to ask any man. If you tell me you can do it, I will believe you."

"I can do it," d'Artagnan agrees.

Anne takes his hand, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry, Charles."

"It doesn't matter, your majesty. He can't touch me any more, after all." Turning to Athos, he adds, "You'll have to get him in here; he can't approach me in public. Especially not now, Rochefort will be watching very closely now."

Athos nods, crossing to the door. They all hear Porthos' protest clearly; Athos says something sharp and their voices drop to a murmur.

Louis starts to speak, but d'Artagnan shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Honestly. I just need to know you can talk to him without losing your temper."

Louis nods. "Stay at my side and don't move." He turns to Anne, offering her his arm.

"French, your majesties, for Athos' sake," d'Artagnan murmurs as Athos comes back into the room. Domingo is behind him and Porthos at the rear; he closes the door firmly on Rochefort.

d'Artagnan is surprised to find he feels nothing when he looks at Domingo; he is only empty inside.

"We have summoned you here to be sure you will not attempt to approach our servant d'Artagnan," Louis announces, and if his voice shakes, d'Artagnan doesn't think Domingo will know it; he almost never heard Louis speak, after all. "He has been assigned as a guard to your group. You will not approach him, you will not speak to him, you will not attempt to communicate unless in the most dire need. Are we understood?"

"You are, your majesty," Domingo agrees. "May I say that I am pleased he was not punished for his desertion? Charles was never anything but your man, even when he served me."

"Porthos, escort him out," Louis orders. "Tell Rochefort we will be ready for him shortly." Porthos nods, gesturing Domingo towards the door. Domingo goes without objection.

Athos turns to d'Artagnan, but he shakes his head. "I'm all right."

"d'Artagnan..."

"I'm all _right_ ," he says again, wondering vaguely why the others can't seem to see it. Louis is holding Anne's arm tightly; d'Artagnan risks touching them to loosen his grip, steering him to the nearest chair. "Take a moment," he murmurs. "But Rochefort is waiting."

"Rochefort," Louis repeats, straightening. "Yes. Send him in."

d'Artagnan crosses to the door, watching from the corner of his eye as Anne slides behind Louis' shoulder. "Comte de Rochefort? You may enter." 

Rochefort stalks in, bowing briefly to the royal couple. “Your majesty, may I ask why your Musketeer felt it necessary to shoot out one of our own windows and panic our Spanish guests?”

“No, you may not,” Louis snapped. “We will resume the audience.”

“Your majesty, I cannot protect you if I am not in possession of all the facts.”

“The Musketeers will protect me. Your only concern is to see that these trade talks conclude in our favour. Is that understood?”

Rochefort bows again, eyes bright with anger. “As you command, your majesty.”

"And Rochefort, find out why your men did not deem it necessary to obtain the names of our guests prior to their arrival."

"I had their names, your majesty."

"And didn't see fit to share? I am disappointed in you."

Athos is leaning over the Queen, d'Artagnan realises, and she’s sitting down. "Your majesty..."

"No, I'm well," she insists. "Only the – the worry, I suppose."

"Fetch Constance," Athos tells d'Artagnan, who goes back to the door again. Rochefort moves past him to crouch by Anne's chair.

d'Artagnan waves at the nearest page, ordering wine, and then gestures Constance in. "As much worry as you can, as loudly as you can," he murmurs, and she looks at him oddly but hurries to Anne's side.

"Your majesty! Are you unwell? You're so pale! What's happened?"

"I'm fine, Constance," Anne assures her. "Just the excitement."

The page boy knocks on the door and d'Artagnan takes the wine, crossing to offer it to Anne. "It will help," he says when she starts to refuse, and she sighs and takes a couple of sips. "Your majesty, she should retire," he adds to Louis.

"Yes, of course. Porthos, can you escort them to her rooms? My dear, I must meet our guests but I will send to you as soon as I can."

"I should be with you," Anne protests.

"No, Madame Bonacieux is quite right, you're far too pale. Please, go and rest. If only to spare my worries."

Anne gives in gracefully and Porthos comes to support her to her feet. Rochefort watches intently as they leave, Constance going ahead to clear the path as best she can. They don't need any rumours getting back to Spanish ears.

Louis clears his throat, brushing idly at his clothes. "Now, Rochefort. We will resume the meeting. Go and announce us at once."

Rochefort bows. He's regained his court face and there's no sign of the anger that had burned so brightly. "Your Majesty." Athos goes with him, leaving Louis alone with d'Artagnan.

"Henri," d'Artagnan says quietly. "Are you sure you can do this?"

Louis smiles faintly. "No other man in my court would dare to ask such a thing, you know."

"I'm sorry –“

"I told you once. Never be sorry in my presence. Your concern is appreciated, Charles. I can do this."

"Good." Athos cracks the door, glancing in, and d'Artagnan nods. "Time to go, then, your majesty."

 

The meeting is entirely without incident, and d'Artagnan follows the Spanish group as Athos leads them to the rooms set aside for them. So far they've all been very polite, and Domingo has been very silent. The one guard they've brought has been deferential to d'Artagnan and Athos both; d'Artagnan makes a mental note to speak him very soon and find out if there are any particular habits of the group that he'll need to know about.

When he looks up, everyone has disappeared around a corner. Everyone except Domingo, watching him carefully.

"Catch up to the others," d'Artagnan says quietly.

"Tell me, Charles –“

"d'Artagnan," he says without thinking, and then winces inwardly.

"d'Artagnan," Domingo echoes.

"If I call for the guard, Louis will have you killed," d'Artagnan warns him. "He refrains only because I asked him to."

"You call him Louis now," Domingo notes.

d'Artagnan swallows against a surge of anger. "Do not speak my King's name. And don't make me call the guard. Just go back to the others."

"I only wanted –“

"I don't care what you wanted." He thinks that will scare him later, but right now he's only angry. "You are not my master any more."

"And yet you aren't calling the guard," Domingo murmurs.

d'Artagnan turns, one hand up to catch the attention of the nearest guard. Domingo is staring at him when he turns back; he holds his gaze as the guard jogs over. "This gentleman has become separated from the group. Escort him to the rooms, and tell Athos I will be there in a moment.”

The guard nods, urging Domingo down the corridor. d'Artagnan watches until they vanish around a corner; then he makes for the nearest alcove, leaning both hands against the wall and drawing in a ragged breath.

“d'Artagnan?”

 _Constance_. d'Artagnan drags a hand over his face. “What is it?” he asks without turning.

“Can you look at me, please?” she asks softly.

“Constance…”

She slips into the alcove, so close beside him he can feel the heat from her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” and it’s so clearly a lie he’s not surprised when she just snorts.

“That man was part of the Spanish party,” she says softly.

“Mmm.”

“d'Artagnan. I heard him.”

d'Artagnan can’t understand what that means at first; too long, apparently, because Constance reaches for his hand, tugging gently until he turns towards her.

“d'Artagnan,” she says quietly. “I heard what you said.”

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, but he makes no move to stop her when she unlaces one of his gauntlets and slides it off.

Her fingers ghost over the scars. “You said he isn’t your master now.” d'Artagnan doesn’t answer, can’t find any words. “These are from manacles.”

“Yes,” he breathes.

She looks up. “Can’t you tell me anything?”

“Not much.” He tugs against her grip, resettling the gauntlet. He can’t manage the laces and she nudges his fingers aside to do it for him. “Domingo – had something, that France in general and Louis in particular needed desperately. He offered to give it up in exchange for my service, and I agreed.”

“Athos let you do that?”

“Athos wasn’t there. None of them were there; just me. I had to decide, and I had to decide quickly, and I made the choice I thought I could live with.” He scrubs both hands over his face and through his hair.

“Service,” Constance repeats slowly.

“Bodyguard, mostly. Confidante, sometimes. I trained his men for a while.”

“You trained Spanish soldiers?”

“I trained Domingo’s men to protect his people from bandits. Nothing else. I was never set against French interests; that was the only condition I laid on it.”

Constance takes his wrists again, though she doesn’t try to move the gauntlets this time, just rubs one gently with her thumb. “Did he keep you always chained?”

“I was almost never chained. But he liked knowing he could if he wanted to.” Constance frowns, and he adds “Just manacles. No chains.”

“The King expects you to guard this man?”

“The King gave me every opportunity to refuse, Constance,” d'Artagnan assures her. Soothing her is oddly helpful; concentrating on her means he’s not paying any attention to how he’s feeling. “This assignment is my choice and I’m free to refuse it at any time.”

“Give it up,” Constance urges him.

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “Athos will see that Domingo doesn’t approach me again. It’s important that I do this.”

“Why?”

He can’t think of anything better than “Because he is not my master any more” but maybe it’s enough. Constance’s face softens, and her hold on his wrists slides down until they’re holding hands.

“I saw you when you came back,” she reminds him quietly. “How much of that assignment did you spend trapped in his service?”

“Almost all of it. Just over seventeen months.” He smiles faintly. “These talks are only scheduled for a week. It won’t be quite so bad.”

“I’m sorry you were alone,” she says quietly. “You’re not alone now. I won’t ask you any more questions, but if there are things you want to tell me, if you want to talk – about anything, not just this…”

“I’ll come to you.”

“Who knows?”

“Athos and the others. Treville. Louis. Queen Anne knows some, more than you but not everything.”

“Rochefort?”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “As far as I know, he knows nothing. He’s not supposed to know anything. And it’s safer for you if no one knows that you know. The whole thing would be embarrassing for France and Spain both if it came out.”

“So no one will know what you did?”

He smiles, tugging gently at her hands until she steps into him for a hug. “Everyone who matters to me knows.”


	5. Chapter 5

Athos is furious when d'Artagnan tells him about Domingo’s attempt; he’s ready to go straight to Louis, until d'Artagnan stops him.

“I don’t understand,” Athos says, frustrated. “Even if he had done nothing else, he’s disobeyed a direct command from the King. Why are you protecting him?”

“It’s not for him.”

Athos studies him for a long time. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked, d'Artagnan. How hard you’ve had to work. All of that is because of him."

"Athos..." d'Artagnan shakes his head. "Try and hear me when I say _it doesn't matter._ Domingo doesn't matter, now. We can't undo what he's done, but he can't do anything else, either." He takes a breath. "Constance knows, a little."

Athos is still for a moment. "What does she know?"

"That I traded my service for something France needed. That Domingo was -" He shrugs helplessly. "She's seen my wrists, she knows what he was."

"Just your wrists?"

"Just my wrists," d'Artagnan agrees evenly. "She was ready to be furious at Louis for giving me the assignment. I told her I wanted it."

"Why do you want it?" Athos asks softly.

d'Artagnan repeats what he told Constance; he thinks Athos will understand. "Because he is not my master any more."

Athos nods slowly. "I see."

"If you think I should back down..."

"Give you an order? Aramis would have my head." He smiles, faintly. "If you think you can do it, then do it. But understand that we will not stop watching over you, and watching him, and if we think it necessary we will end this for you. I won't let him hurt you ever again."

"I understand," d'Artagnan agrees.

They go back to relieve the Red Guards Athos has left on guard. d'Artagnan settles himself at a window, where he plausibly looks like he's on guard, and listens. The conversation is mostly banal, complaints about the weather, the food, the lodgings. Domingo is mostly silent.

When the conversation moves on to what a shame it is that a pretty Spanish princess had to marry that bore of a Frenchman, Domingo stirs. "Be careful," he says warningly. "Walls have ears, and we are in his home."

“What, those two?” someone else says without looking at d'Artagnan or Athos. “They’re useless. Pretty decorations. Boy, fetch me something to drink.” d'Artagnan doesn’t react in the slightest and the man laughs after a moment. “See, Domingo? You worry too much.” In French, and in a far more polite tone, he adds, “Is it possible to get something to drink, please?”

“I’ll see to it immediately,” Athos says with a slight bow, going to the door. There’ll be a maid or page or footman outside, d'Artagnan knows, ready to run for whatever’s needed at the slightest word.

One of the men wonders aloud how skilled Athos might be in bed, and they start discussing it loudly. d'Artagnan lets his eyes slide out of focus and concentrates on listening. He doesn’t know exactly how much Spanish Athos knows, but hopefully he isn’t following what they’re saying. Domingo looks worried. d'Artagnan enjoys it without reacting outwardly.

Athos lets in a maid with a tray of glasses. The man who’d asked for the drink thanks her politely and then calls her something very rude to the others. d'Artagnan looks warningly at Domingo. Having them dismiss him or Athos is one thing; having them call the female servants names like that is quite something else, and he knows Domingo knows he won’t stand for it. Domingo shouts the others down, but from what d'Artagnan can see he doesn’t have any actual authority here – he’s been brought along for his experience as a trader – and d'Artagnan knows they won’t stay silent for long.

He meanders over to Athos, leaning against the wall. “Tell the maid to send a footman next time,” he murmurs. “And every time, from now on.”

“Pardon?”

“Men only,” he clarifies. “Preferably big men.”

Athos shoots him a look. “We’re right here.”

“You _can_ hear what they’re saying?”

“I haven’t been paying much attention.”

“Don’t try,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “Just pass the message on, please.” He heads back to his post.

The evening passes slowly. When the men ask for food, a hulking footman brings it, and though they don’t react outwardly there’s disappointment in their voices. Domingo retires to bed early, claiming fatigue after the journey, and the others get more and more rowdy and drunk. d'Artagnan’s glad when Thierry comes to tell him Louis wants him. He tells Athos to come to his room when he’s relieved and goes to find Louis.

They meet in one of Anne’s sitting rooms. Anne looks pale still, d'Artagnan thinks, but she smiles when he kneels to her and then settles beside her chair as he’s used to doing in the garden. “I’m quite well,” she assures him when he asks.

“Have you learned anything?” Louis asks.

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “They’re loud and crude – and not very fond of you, I’m afraid, sire – but they haven’t said anything about the mission, or about any other plans they might have.”

“Not fond of me?” Louis repeats.

d'Artagnan tilts his head towards Anne. “They’re very fond of you, your majesty.”

“How charming,” she says, sounding anything but charmed.

“And Domingo?” Louis asks.

“He’s been trying to keep them quiet, but he hasn’t told them I know what they’re saying. I don’t think he will.” He’s leaning his head against the chair, he realises suddenly, and shifts to sit upright.

“You’re tired,” Anne murmurs, and from her it doesn’t sound like pity. “Do you need to go back? Who’s on guard now?”

“Thierry, and…I don’t know who’s supposed to relieve Athos, but someone will. He’s staying here tonight, in my room.”

“Good,” Anne agrees. d'Artagnan suspects she’s moments away from petting his hair; she’s done it a couple of times, on lazy hot afternoons.

He pushes to his feet, bowing slightly. “With your permission, your majesties, I’ll retire. Long day tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” Louis agrees.

“Feel better, your majesty.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

He passes Constance on the way out. They don’t speak, but he lets his hand brush against hers.

 

The rest of the week passes in much in the same fashion. d'Artagnan spends the days following the Spanish group around, reports to Louis in the evenings, smiles at Constance when he sees her. After the first couple of days Athos starts trading off with Thierry; the Spanish are still as crude and loud as ever and d'Artagnan doesn’t like the way Athos holds himself to keep from reacting. Thierry doesn’t speak Spanish, doesn’t know d'Artagnan does, and seems pleased to take the duty.

The group is only served by the footmen, now. It doesn’t stop the raucous comments, but d'Artagnan is less worried about anything actually happening. Domingo hasn’t made any attempt to get him alone since that first day; d'Artagnan ignores him as much as he can while staying aware of him.

He pays little attention to the meetings. Rochefort is running them, and most of what they’re talking about goes over d'Artagnan’s head anyway. He just makes sure he’s close enough to hear the quiet discussions between the traders and files away what they’re saying for his reports each evening. They haven't said anything questionable so far; d'Artagnan's starting to think they won't.

On the second last full day, d'Artagnan is following them back towards their rooms when the Spanish guard, Santino, drops back to walk beside him. d'Artagnan acknowledges him vaguely; they've been able to work politely together, but they haven’t spoken much.

"You are a soldier," Santino says suddenly.

"Yes," d'Artagnan agrees, suddenly more aware. He’s not sure where this is going and doesn’t think he’ll like it when it gets there.

"Me too. Soldiers, we are not men who talk around a subject. We only say what we mean. You won't take offence?"

"Try me and see." d'Artagnan glances ahead, but he can't catch Thierry's eye.

"No worry," Santino says quickly, catching the look. "This is not a danger to anyone."

"Try me," d'Artagnan repeats.

Santino glances down the corridor, lowering his voice. "My masters are bored," he murmurs. "They wish for – _companionship_ , you understand?"

"I understand," d'Artagnan agrees, relaxing slightly. "That won't be happening, though."

"There are none such here?"

"Not in the palace, and I'm not bringing anyone in."

"No maid who wishes some extra coin?"

d'Artagnan catches his arm, halting him. "Maybe that isn't an insult where you come from," he says, though he knows well it is, "but here you do not make suggestions like that."

"My apologies," Santino says carelessly. "But you are sure no one can come in?"

"Your party's safety is my concern and I'm not bringing anyone in from outside at this point. Your masters will have to be bored, or amuse themselves." He gestures down the corridor. "Let's go."

Santino hesitates, studying him. "My masters are loud, and – ah, I think the word is _rude_. But they would lay no finger on anyone unwilling. I tell you this on my honour."

"It doesn't matter; they'll have no opportunity. Let's go."

Back at the rooms he murmurs an excuse to Thierry and leaves, asking the first Musketeer he sees to join Thierry until Athos returns. d'Artagnan makes his way to Anne's sitting room, where Louis usually receives his report. It works well; the entire palace knows by now that d'Artagnan has become Anne's favourite, and since her sudden illness at the start of the visit Louis has made a point of visiting with her at least twice a day. If his visits happen to coincide with d'Artagnan's, no one comments.

Anne can clearly see d'Artagnan's agitation; she sends for Louis immediately and asks Constance to fetch d'Artagnan a drink. When she comes back with it d'Artagnan wraps his arm around her for a hug, holding on tightly while he struggles for calm.

"It's all right," Constance promises quietly. "Whatever it is, we'll take care of it."

He lets go, taking the cup from her and half turning away. "My apologies, your majesty," he murmurs.

Anne shakes her head. "Should I send for the others?"

"No. Thank you. Athos is just going on duty, and the others can't help."

Louis arrives, taking in the room at a glance. "Has something happened?" he asks, moving to Anne's side.

d'Artagnan shakes his head quickly. "Nothing serious, your majesty, only –“ He glances at Anne and Constance. Neither moves, and he grimaces apologetically as he says "Your guests have just asked me to bring prostitutes in. They're _bored_."

"And what did you say?" Louis asks calmly.

"I said no; I can't bring anyone in from outside the palace. But I'm worried they may – attempt to find amusement themselves."

"Do you think they would?" Anne asks.

d'Artagnan spreads his hands helplessly. "I can't tell, your majesty. I've already arranged that the maids only come when the rooms are empty, and we keep them together as best we can when travelling about the palace, but tomorrow is the farewell party in the gardens and there's simply no way for us to watch all of them all the time."

Anne glances at Constance. "Issue orders that anyone serving at the party tomorrow must travel in twos. No exceptions. If they're questioned, they will say that one of each pair is in training."

Constance nods, slipping out of the room. Louis glances absently after her. "I will tell Rochefort to double the guard and to have them keep careful watch."

d'Artagnan hesitates. “I can’t say for sure that anything will happen, Henri.”

“Better to have too many guards and nothing happen.”

d'Artagnan nods wearily. “Yes. Of course.”

Anne smiles. “A holiday, after this, d'Artagnan?”

“That would be nice,” he murmurs, but she looks sad and he doesn’t know why.

 

Aramis and Porthos join Athos and d'Artagnan for the party the next day. Aramis amuses himself by glaring at Domingo every time he sees him. Porthos glares at everyone indiscriminately. d'Artagnan has appointed himself Constance’s escort, since there’s no point in his trying to listen to the Spanish group right now. Anne keeps sending Constance to fetch things and carry messages and d'Artagnan amiably follows her back and forth.

“She’s doing that on purpose,” Constance murmurs.

“Does it bother you?”

“No. It’s just strange.”

d'Artagnan glances back at the royal couple. “Constance – she is well, isn’t she?”

“Why do you ask?”

“She’s so tired all the time. And she’s been spending all her time in her rooms.”

“She’s fine,” Constance assures him.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They amble back towards the pavilion, pointless message delivered. They’re in sight of it when d'Artagnan spots Thierry. “Constance, go straight back to the pavilion,” he says.

“You’re overreacting,” she tells him.

“Just go straight back, _please_.”

She smiles at him, turning to head for the pavilion, and d'Artagnan wanders over to Thierry. They haven’t had much time to talk, but he’s enjoyed the conversations they’ve had. Thierry has a wicked sense of humour and little respect for authority, preferring to follow people over institutions.

They’ve been talking for perhaps three minutes when Thierry suddenly looks over d'Artagnan’s shoulder. “Can I help you, monsieur?”

“d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head without looking around. “Go back to the others, Domingo, we’re not talking right now.”

“This is important.”

“No.”

“Your girl is in trouble,” Domingo says in Spanish, and he sounds desperate enough that d'Artagnan turns to look at him.

“I don’t have a girl,” he says, and he only realises it’s Spanish when Thierry frowns at him.

“Your _girl_ ,” Domingo says again.

d'Artagnan looks past him to the pavilion. He can’t see Constance.

“Thierry,” he says without looking at him, “find the others, send them after me.” He looks at Domingo for the direction, glances at Thierry to make sure he has it, and follows Domingo.

“Santino said they wouldn’t force anyone.”

“Santino?” Domingo laughs softly. “Soft boy. He never believes ill of anyone even when he sees it.”

“Where are we going?” d'Artagnan hisses, but then they round a stand of trees and he can hear people ahead. He can hear _Constance_.

He very nearly attacks Athos when the older man lays a hand on his shoulder. Athos clearly sees it, because he takes a step back, glancing from d'Artagnan to Domingo and back. “What’s going on?” d'Artagnan gestures wordlessly and Athos listens for a moment. “I see. And you, monsieur?”

“Char – d'Artagnan will tell you. I don’t tolerate this.”

d'Artagnan starts towards the noises; Athos catches his arm, hauling him back and ducking the retaliatory swing. “Stop and think,” he hisses. “How many of them?”

“Three,” Domingo offers.

Porthos arrives and Athos abandons his attempts to hold d'Artagnan back, following on his heels. d'Artagnan charges into the clearing, sword already in hand.

He loses most of the fight; the next thing he’s aware of is Athos shouting at him. Porthos has Constance by the arm, holding her back. Aramis has arrived at some point, d'Artagnan can just see him over Athos’ shoulder, watching them carefully.

The tip of d'Artagnan’s sword is resting against Athos’ throat, though he’s completely ignoring it. “d'Artagnan,” he says softly. “Are you with me?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan manages.

“Good.” Athos’ eyes flick down to the sword and back up. d'Artagnan shakes his head briefly. He can’t let go, and he’s afraid to try and move the blade.

“Aramis,” Athos says quietly. More loudly, he adds “Porthos, escort Constance back to the party. We’ll be there in a few moments.”

“Right,” Porthos agrees. Constance protests, but she goes with him.

Aramis steps into d'Artagnan’s eyeline, reaching out to wrap both hands around the hilt of his sword. As soon as Aramis has hold of it Athos takes a step back out of range, and once he’s safe Aramis carefully twists the blade out of d'Artagnan’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan breathes.

Athos steps back into him, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I was not afraid of you,” he says quietly.

d'Artagnan barks a laugh; it’s dangerously close to a sob, and he bites it off fast. “Weren’t you?”

“I will never be afraid of you.”

“I’m not _safe_ ,” d'Artagnan hisses.

“I will never be afraid of you,” Athos repeats evenly.

d'Artagnan gestures past him, to where he can see an outstretched arm streaked with blood. “I’ve killed Louis’ guests, haven’t I.”

“You didn’t kill anyone. That was me.”

“Liar,” d'Artagnan says, but there’s no strength in it.

Athos and Aramis must have communicated without his noticing, because Aramis says “Yes. Come on, d'Artagnan.”

“What?”

“We’re going back to the palace.”

“What?”

Aramis shakes his head, guiding d'Artagnan out of the clearing. They pass Domingo, but he doesn’t speak.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a time skip of about a year in the middle here; don't be too confused.

****

Back at the palace, d'Artagnan cleans up and falls into bed. He sleeps for close to twelve hours, and when he wakes it’s only long enough to eat. He only wakes the next morning because Porthos wakes him.

“The remains of the Spanish group are leaving,” he says, once he’s sure d'Artagnan is awake enough to listen. “Domingo wants to see you. Athos was all for sending him off, but Aramis thought you might want to.”

“Domingo,” d'Artagnan echoes, and then shakes his head. “What happened?”

Porthos shrugs, waving a jerkin at him. “Louis was all for executing the rest of the Spanish. We argued him down. They’re being escorted to the border, and they won’t dare dispute the terms of the agreement now.”

“Domingo helped,” d'Artagnan points out.

“So Aramis said. Didn’t matter much to Louis, you know that.”

“No. I suppose it wouldn’t,” he mutters. “How is Constance?”

“Queen’s kept her isolated. We’re told she’s fine.”

d'Artagnan crosses to the ewer, splashing his face in lieu of a proper wash, and takes the jerkin from Porthos. “Am I in trouble?”

“No. They attacked Louis’ staff. Athos hadn’t taken care of them, he’d have ordered them executed anyway.”

d'Artagnan glances at him. “I took care of them.”

“It was Athos,” Porthos says blandly.

“Constance will tell me the truth, you know.”

“Constance knows what happened.”

d'Artagnan gives up, following Porthos to the throne room. Santino and the two remaining Spaniards are under Athos’ guard on one side of the room; Domingo is standing alone nearer the throne. 

d'Artagnan bows to Louis before turning to look at him. “Thank you for your help, senor.”

“How is she?” Domingo asks.

“Unharmed.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“The treaty?”

“The treaty goes ahead as we planned. King Philip will agree.”

“Good,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

“Charles –“

“Domingo,” he says evenly. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Domingo studies him for a moment. “No. I suppose we don’t.”

“Be well, Domingo.”

“Be well, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan glances at Athos, who clears his throat loudly. “This way, senor.” Domingo goes without protest.

d'Artagnan bows to Louis and leaves, making his way to Anne’s apartments. He’s aware that Porthos is following him, but he pays little attention.

Anne’s maid opens the door, curtseys and lets him in. Anne is sewing; she barely looks up when d'Artagnan settles beside her chair. “How are you?” she murmurs.

“How’s Constance?”

Anne considers him for a moment. “She is not hurt.”

“Not by the Spanish.”

She glances up at the maid. “Ask Madame Bonacieux if she’ll join us. Make it clear that it’s a request, please.” The maid curtseys again, disappearing through one of the doors. d'Artagnan stands, taking a couple of steps away from Anne. She keeps sewing placidly. Porthos shifts where he’s standing near the door, but he doesn’t speak.

d'Artagnan has retreated almost to the window when Constance comes in. She bows to Anne before looking at him. “d'Artagnan.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Sir Porthos,” Anne announces loudly, “I need some air. Please accompany me.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Porthos agrees, solemnly squiring her the four feet to her balcony. He leaves the door open, but the room is big enough that he won’t hear them if they keep their voices down.

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“That’s what Athos said. You should be.”

Constance studies him for a moment. “Do you remember the fight?”

“No,” he admits. “I don’t. Just – Athos.” He looks at her. “I killed those men.”

“Athos killed them,” she says evenly. d'Artagnan scoffs and she repeats “Athos killed them. You didn’t attack anyone. You just kept them away from me. That’s why Athos – he was distracting you so Porthos could get me. You wouldn’t let them near me. Not even them.”

“I don’t remember,” he says helplessly. “I’m _sorry_ , Constance.”

“Sorry? For saving me from that?”

“No,” he says, startled. “Of course not. But if I scared you…”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she repeats. “I’m just sorry you’re hurting.”

d'Artagnan groans, holding out a hand. Constance takes it, stepping into him without hesitation for a hug. d'Artagnan buries his face in her neck, concentrating on keeping his breathing as even as possible.

 

Anne sends d'Artagnan a summons to court a couple of days later. It surprises him, but he presents himself as requested. It’s a fairly stripped down court; Treville and the other Musketeers, Rochefort, Constance.

“d'Artagnan,” Anne says. “When you returned to Paris, I offered you a position. I promised you time to consider, and I sincerely meant to allow you all the time you needed. But circumstances have changed. I will soon have to absent myself from the public eye.”

Her hands are resting on her belly. d'Artagnan smiles broadly. “Congratulations, your majesties.”

Louis beams. Anne smiles, but she still looks guarded. “Before I retire, I wish to know that my son is protected. You are still completely free to refuse; but if you do, I must now turn to Captain Treville to look for someone else.”

d'Artagnan realises, with faint surprise, that he’s made his decision. “May I make a request, your majesty?”

“Of course.”

“I will accept the position with honour. If I may have your word that when your younger child reaches this age, you will allow me to resign and rejoin the Musketeers if I wish to do so.”

“Royal guard is usually a lifelong appointment,” Rochefort points out. “If you don’t wish it, d'Artagnan, I can nominate several excellent Red Guards.”

“I’ve already stated that should d'Artagnan refuse I would turn to the Musketeers,” Anne says levelly. “They are the royal bodyguards, after all. But there’s no need. I accept your condition wholeheartedly, d'Artagnan. And should they have need of you for any particular mission, I’m certain that could be arranged too.”

She nods to Treville, who bows. “Thank you, your majesty.”

Anne glances at Constance. “Please arrange quarters in the Dauphin’s suite for d'Artagnan. His security will be entirely in your hands, d'Artagnan. Rochefort, you will ensure that the palace guards understand they are to take his orders where it pertains to security.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Rochefort agrees.

“Excellent.” Louis steps off the dais, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder. “I know that you will protect him just as well as you have done me.”

“I can only hope, your majesty.”

Anne rises, taking Louis’ hand. “Take tonight to spend with your friends, d'Artagnan. Tomorrow we will discuss your duties in detail.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Rochefort scowls as he follows them out. d'Artagnan smiles mildly at him.

He takes a breath before turning to face the others. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Athos tells him. “If this is truly what you wish.”

“It’s not – no, it is what I wish,” he corrects himself hastily. “But it’s not because I don’t want to be with you.”

“You don’t have to –“ Aramis falls silent at his gesture.

“I can’t fight for an ideal, now,” d'Artagnan says carefully. “Honour and loyalty, they’re not – I believe in them, still, but I can’t fight for them now. Maybe, later – but I can fight for him. That much I can do.”

“A person instead of an ideal,” Aramis murmurs.

d'Artagnan smiles wryly. “No one will harm him while I can stop it.” Aramis returns the smile, recognising the words as d'Artagnan knew he would. The others will recognise it only as Aramis’ promise to d'Artagnan; they don’t know it’s also d'Artagnan’s vow to Domingo, many months ago.

“I certainly hope that in two and a half years you’ll return to us,” Treville says, pulling his hat on. “But if not, I will be honoured to say that one of my Musketeers is the Dauphin’s guard. Remember we’re still your brothers, d'Artagnan.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Treville nods, glancing at Athos. “I’ll expect to see you three tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Captain.”

d'Artagnan turns to the others as Treville leaves, ready to apologise again, but Porthos shakes his head firmly. “Don’t apologise again, d'Artagnan. This is what you want, it’s what we want for you.”

“It’s what I want,” d'Artagnan agrees.

“Good. Then let’s go out and celebrate your new post, eh?” He grins, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder.

“I agree,” Aramis says promptly. “This is a happy occasion.”

Everyone turns to look at Athos. He doesn’t seem to realise for a moment; then he looks up from the hat he’s worrying in his hands. “Yes,” he agrees. “A celebration. Let’s go.”

 

 

_…and finally, your majesty, one thing to note that may be useful to us._

_The queen is, of course, still in her confinement, though we are assured the second prince is a healthy babe. On the second day of our visit, the king sent for the Dauphin to present him to us. The Dauphin is a lively boy, a very attractive child who spoke well to us when directed by his father. However, my interest was in his escort. A young man with a soldier’s bearing, in the livery of the Dauphin’s household. His manner was extremely informal with both the Dauphin and the king, and he spoke Spanish with the Dauphin and French with the other servants. He is clearly held in high regard; the king not only tolerates his informality but seems to encourage it. If we wish to gain a foothold, we could do worse than start with him. I shall continue to find out what I can and keep you informed…_

_…further to the matter we discussed previously, I have learned that the Dauphin’s guard, d'Artagnan, was seconded from the King’s Musketeers for the position. Having seen him several times with Musketeers, I may venture that he is still well liked and respected in that regiment. In particular, three who seem to be his majesty’s guard; I have heard no names, but I have seen them several times in passing._

_One strange thing I will note, and then I must close this letter. d'Artagnan habitually wears leather gauntlets about both wrists. I had assumed this an affectation of his own, as I have not seen it either within the Dauphin’s household or on other Musketeers. Yesterday I happened upon d'Artagnan with the Dauphin and some of his ladies in the gardens; d'Artagnan was actually mock wrestling with the boy, laying hands on him against all protocol. When they realised I was present, he became far more deferential, standing aside as a guard should; but I had time to see that one of his gauntlets had shifted, revealing heavy scarring underneath. I could not be seen to be interested, of course, and so I may be wrong, but I believe the scars to have been inflicted by manacles, and some years ago. d'Artagnan has spent time in prison and yet is trusted above all others with the Dauphin!_

_I must close this letter now, but I will continue to keep my eyes open…_

_…today I was fortunate enough to be granted a brief visit with her majesty. The visit took place in the gardens, and both princes were present. I had expected d'Artagnan to stay in the background, but he spoke most informally with her majesty and her premier lady, and with the Dauphin, playing hand games and answering his questions most carefully. Her majesty seemed to take this as normal, and indeed I am starting to think it is._

_I have spoken with d'Artagnan. He is polite, but unforthcoming; he accepts compliments to the Dauphin and brushes aside those offered to him. It was to him I mentioned my desire to visit with the queen and offer my congratulations on her two beautiful boys, and shortly after that I received my invitation. His influence on the royal family is startlingly high for a guard. But I am very aware that he watched me all the time, even when his attention seemed to be on the Dauphin or on the queen’s young lady. I am quite certain that had he interpreted any of my behaviour as dangerous, he would have dealt with it most swiftly._

_I rescind the suggestion I made some time ago. I do not believe that this young man can be turned or prevailed upon. His loyalty, so far as I can tell, is absolute, and any attempt to ingratiate ourselves with him will not be well received. However, I believe that so long as our aims and France’s are complementary, he will make no effort to impede us._

_I will continue to watch him, but my efforts to gain a foothold in the king’s household must turn to someone else, perhaps one of the Musketeers on his guard or one of his servants. I will keep you updated…  
_

 

“You confuse him, you know,” Anne murmurs.

d'Artagnan glances after the retreating Danish ambassador. “He’s looking for an inside man at court, and that’s not me.”

“No, _you_ confuse him,” she repeats gently.

“Me? What’s confusing about me? Your highness, please don’t hit Madame Bonacieux with your sword, she doesn’t like it!”

“Sorry Charl, sorry Tan!”

Anne smiles. “When I was growing up in Spain, my guard barely ever spoke to me. I don’t believe he ever spoke to my parents. Louis’ guards were all chosen by Marie, I know they didn’t speak to him.”

“Your majesty, if I’ve given offence…”

She laughs softly. “We would have told you before now. But that’s why you confuse him. You are not what guards usually are. He expected a servant. Not you.”

“You knew what I was when you offered me the position, your majesty.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I did.”

He bows, climbing to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, your majesty, I think his highness needs some energy run off.”

“Constance will be grateful if you can get that sword away from him,” Anne agrees, watching with a smile as d'Artagnan charges the Dauphin. The boy squeals in delight, dodging around Constance and pelting away across the lawn with d'Artagnan in hot pursuit.

d'Artagnan runs him back and forth for a while, skilfully keeping him inside the Queen’s garden without seeming to limit him at all. Aramis is passing by with Porthos; the Dauphin runs to hide behind them, grinning as d'Artagnan halts. “Have you seen the Dauphin? I just can’t seem to find him anywhere!”

“The Dauphin?” Aramis turns to Porthos. “Have you seen the Dauphin, Porthos?”

“Have you lost him again, d'Artagnan?” Porthos sighs loudly. “This is getting to be a habit.” Without looking down, he catches the outstretched arm and swings the Dauphin up onto Aramis’ hip.

“What can I say, I’m a terrible guard.” d'Artagnan heaves an over exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I should go and tell the queen I lost her son so she can fire me.” Turning, he starts to trudge away.

“Charl!” the Dauphin squeals.

“Wait! I found him!” Aramis calls. d'Artagnan turns and the Dauphin launches himself from Aramis’ arms into his.

d'Artagnan doesn’t miss the flicker of pain on Aramis’ face, but it’s gone before he can say anything.

Hitching the Dauphin up in his arms, he glances at Porthos. “I think the Ambassador has given up on me. You should be careful, he’ll move on to Louis’ household next.”

“We’ll pass it around,” Porthos agrees.

The Dauphin wriggles; d'Artagnan adjusts his grip without looking at him. “Someone needs to go and do some lessons –“

“Nooo!” the Dauphin protests, wriggling again. d'Artagnan hoists him up over his shoulder, pinning his arm to avoid the wooden sword.

“- so we’re going to go,” he finishes. “See you later?”

“Yeah, I’ll come by this evening,” Porthos says. “Can he breathe like that?”

d'Artagnan twists his head to study the Dauphin. “He’s fine,” he says unconcernedly. “Come along, your highness.”

“I hate lessons!”

“I thought you enjoyed our sword lessons, but if you really don’t want to…”

“I want to!”

d'Artagnan swings him down, frowning. “You don’t seem very sure, your highness.”

“I want to, I want to! ‘Mis, I want to!”

“I’d happily teach you, your highness, but unfortunately I need d'Artagnan’s permission.” Aramis bows, grinning when the Dauphin can’t see him any more.

“Well, if you’re quite sure you want some lessons, I suppose we’d better go. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Bye,” the Dauphin agrees, tugging on d'Artagnan’s arm to make him move. d'Artagnan smiles, following the boy.


	7. Chapter 7

“I don’t want to.”

“It’ll be fun, your highness.”

“No, I’m bored!”

d'Artagnan sighs, swinging the boy onto his back. “Your parents are looking forward to this, your highness. Let’s not spoil it for them.”

“You won’t be bored once it starts,” Aramis agrees. “An eclipse is quite something to see, and Marmion’s equipment is supposed to be superb. It's a shame we missed the total eclipse a few years ago, but you were only a baby. You wouldn't remember."

The Dauphin tugs on d'Artagnan’s hair. “Want to practise.”

“Later, your highness.”

“Charl…”

d'Artagnan swings him back down, crouching in front of him. “We talked about this, your highness. You have a very important position, and you have responsibilities that go with that position.”

The Dauphin heaves a sigh. “Boring but important.”

“Boring but important,” d'Artagnan agrees, ignoring the grin on Aramis’ face. “I promise later we will practise. Right now?”

“Smile and look interested.”

“Good boy.” d'Artagnan swings him back up, looking pointedly at Aramis. “Yes?”

“The boy’s not yet four, d'Artagnan.”

“There are things it’s never too early to learn. Other people we know might not have had such harsh lessons if they’d learned earlier.”

Constance picks her way back to join them. “What are you three talking about back here?” she calls, in slightly shaky Spanish. Their on again off again lessons over the last year have given her basic fluency, and her accent is better than d'Artagnan’s own after long discussions with the queen, but she still has only the basics.

“We’re having fun!” the Dauphin chirps. d'Artagnan glances up in amusement.

“We are certainly having fun,” Aramis agrees. “Are we ready to go in?”

“We’re just waiting for you lot. Clearly all the fun is here at the back.”

“The fun is always wherever we are,” Aramis agrees, offering her his arm. d'Artagnan falls into step on her other side.

As they near the building he swings the Dauphin down, brushing absently at his jerkin. Constance swats his hand out of the way, scowling at him, and sets about pulling and tweaking the Dauphin’s clothes. d'Artagnan lets her do it; he can’t see any difference when she’s finished, but she seems satisfied.

The Dauphin inhales sharply, pulling back against his legs. d'Artagnan looks up, one hand already drifting to his sword.

“d'Artagnan, don’t,” Constance says quickly. “They’re Marmion’s servants. I think the costume is part of the show.”

d'Artagnan eyes the bird-like mask with distaste, glancing down at the Dauphin. “Just a costume, your highness.” The man bows deeply, and that seems to settle the Dauphin better; he takes a step away from d'Artagnan, acknowledging the bow as he’s been taught. “Come along.” d'Artagnan makes sure to put himself between the Dauphin and the strange man as they enter.

The rest of the party are gathered around a sort of basin on the ground floor. d'Artagnan brings the Dauphin to join them, smiling absently at the female courtier who takes a step back to let them both in. Anne smiles at them from across the basin; the Dauphin waves at her, staring with apparent interest at the embroidered cover on the basin.

A blond man steps around the basin to study them. “And this is our young Dauphin. I am honoured, sire.” The Dauphin returns the bow and the man straightens, offering two sets of eye glasses made from strange, dark glass. “These will allow you to view the eclipse without harm, your highness.” d'Artagnan takes the glasses, looks around to make sure others are wearing them, and passes one pair to the Dauphin. They’re all made to adult scale, so he has to hold them on with one hand; the other hand is firmly entwined in d'Artagnan’s jerkin.

Marmion starts talking. d'Artagnan’s not really paying attention. Athos and Porthos are above and behind him, on opposite sides of the room; Aramis is on the lower level with them, but some way behind, wandering about an open space there. Rochefort brought Red Guards, but d'Artagnan hasn’t seen them at all.

The Dauphin presses against him again. Glancing up, he sees that several of the masked men have entered the room. He lifts the boy onto his hip, keeping him between himself and Constance; catching the eye of Marmion’s servant, he shrugs apologetically. “The masks make him uneasy.”

“Of course,” the man murmurs. “They won’t be wearing them much longer.” He moves away and d'Artagnan quickly loses track of him.

When Anne screams d'Artagnan bundles the Dauphin into Constance’s arms, but he’s already too late to fight back. The masked men move too quickly, overpowering everyone on the ground floor. He’s aware that the other three are still fighting, but there’s nothing he can do; none of the masked men are close enough for him to attack them and there are blades far too close to the royal couple for him to risk moving.

Someone fires a pistol and the fighting stutters to a halt. d'Artagnan doesn’t dare turn, but he can hear the others shouting to each other, checking in. No one seems to be badly hurt. Constance is pressed against him with the Dauphin between them; the boy is silent, watching carefully. Anne is holding Phillippe tightly, trembling slightly.

“Let the women and children go,” Aramis calls from behind d'Artagnan.

Marmion seems puzzled by the idea, wandering through the group to get closer to Aramis. “Pardon me?”

“Show some compassion,” Aramis says evenly. “Let the women and children go.”

“Compassion,” Marmion repeats, half turning away. Aramis isn’t expecting the punch; it sends him to his knees, shaking his head dizzily. 

“I’ll see you dead for this,” Rochefort shouts. d'Artagnan can’t tell whether he’s trying to draw attention or genuinely angry, but it works; Marmion steps away from Aramis, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“Take that one below,” Marmion orders. “And those two,” he adds, glancing upwards. “That one –“ A careless wave to Aramis. “Can stay; the game must be witnessed.” He stops in front of d'Artagnan, considering him. “Take this one away, too.”

“You’ll have to kill me,” d'Artagnan warns him, very low.

“Do you think that worries me?” Marmion asks, looking curious.

“I don’t care if it worries you. I’m just telling you. You’ll have to kill me to make me leave.”

“Such loyalty,” Marmion murmurs. “To a man like him? Why?” d'Artagnan is silent, and Marmion shakes his head, glancing at the servant – Robert, d'Artagnan thinks. “Bind him and let him stay.”

“Constance, sit down,” d'Artagnan murmurs. Constance obeys, still clutching the Dauphin; d'Artagnan submits to being bound and then moves to stand over her, glaring Robert down when he tries to stop him.

“What is the point of this?” Louis demands suddenly. d'Artagnan glances towards him and then away, towards Aramis. Blood’s trickling from his mouth but his eyes are clear and focused.

Marmion is rambling. d'Artagnan pays little attention; he’s heard people try and justify violence before, it never makes sense. Robert, he notes, is looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“People will notice the king is missing,” d'Artagnan says abruptly. Marmion turns, and d'Artagnan wonders vaguely if he interrupted something important. “They’ll send after us.”

“We have hours yet,” Marmion assures him, stepping closer. The Dauphin shies away, pressing against d'Artagnan.

“Shush, highness, you’re safe,” d'Artagnan assures him, Spanish coming without thought.

Marmion scowls. “What are you doing?”

“He’s just a little boy,” Constance says abruptly. “He’s scared. Spanish soothes him.”

“Our future king,” Marmion says mockingly. “Drawing comfort from another language.”

“His mother’s language,” Constance points out.

“Don’t,” d'Artagnan says in Spanish, keeping his tone gentle as though talking to the Dauphin. Constance sends him a startled look but obeys, looking away from Marmion.

“You’re bad,” the Dauphin says abruptly.

“Your highness, _shush_ ,” d'Artagnan says too late.

Marmion leans down to study the boy; d'Artagnan tenses, ready to push him away. “I am not bad, your highness,” he says. “Nor am I good. We are all instruments of fate.”

“He doesn’t understand,” Constance says tightly. “He’s just a little boy.”

“He will. We are all fate’s playthings.” Marmion turns away abruptly, gesturing to his men.

Two of them lay hands on the queen, and d'Artagnan loses himself the way he hates so much. He comes back to himself wrapped in Aramis’ arms, head and ribs and thigh aching.

“You allow a berserker near your son, your majesty!” Marmion jeers.

“There is no one more loyal than he in my court,” Louis says evenly.

“d'Artagnan, can I let you go?” Aramis murmurs.

“Where’s…”

“The Dauphin is here; he’s fine. You kept him safe, no one touched him. Constance has him.”

“The Queen?”

Aramis’ grip spasms on his arm. “Gone, with Philippe. I don’t think they’ve been hurt.”

“Let me go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let me go.”

Aramis steps away. d'Artagnan immediately goes back to Constance; the Dauphin scrambles into his arms, burying his face in d'Artagnan’s neck. d'Artagnan mouths ‘I’m sorry’ to Constance; she smiles faintly, shaking her head.

“Time to make a choice, your majesty,” Marmion announces. “Shall I send this man into room one, or room two?”

Louis glances at the man uncertainly. “What’s in these rooms?”

“One room holds your wife and younger son.” He glares at d'Artagnan, who only smirks back. “The other holds your loyal courtiers.” d'Artagnan blinks, realising only now that the room is empty but for them. 

“Say nothing, your majesty,” Aramis says abruptly.

“Choose, your majesty,” Marmion says patiently.

“What is the point of this?” d'Artagnan demands. Lowering his voice as though to the Dauphin, he adds, “Are we stalling?” in Spanish.

“The others will come,” Aramis tells him, singsong. The Dauphin sniffles loudly.

“The point?” Marmion repeats. “The point is to understand the cost of his decisions. Our great king makes choices that affect all of us with no understanding of the price. He will understand this one. Room one, or room two?”

“You think he doesn’t understand?” d'Artagnan shifts the Dauphin back to Constance’s arms, holding up his bound wrists. “Untie me.”

“Pardon?” Marmion says politely.

“I will show you what he understands. Untie me.”

Marmion gestures to Robert, who moves hesitantly to stand behind Constance and the Dauphin. d'Artagnan snarls but holds still as Marmion cuts his binds with one slice of a blade. d'Artagnan strips off his gauntlets, holding out his arms in front of Marmion.

“This is why he trusts me,” d'Artagnan says softly, watching Marmion’s face. “Because we were captured, and held together, and I traded my freedom for his; I enslaved myself willingly to our captor so the King could go free. He knows very well what it cost. He knows the price of royal decisions. What is it you think he owes you?”

Marmion stares at the scars. “My village,” he murmurs. “Gerberoy.” He stumbles over the words, but the story comes clear; a plague village, fenced in and left to rot. “We died because he didn’t care!”

“He didn’t _know_ ,” Aramis says quietly. “This was under Richelieu? There’s standard protocol for plague villages. It would never have come to the King’s attention. The fault lies somewhere in the guards sent to your village. The King would never have known anything.”

“It matters little.” Marmion gestures to Robert, who steps away from Constance and waits for d'Artagnan to refit his gauntlets before tying him again.

“Is that true?” he breathes, focusing on the knots. “The king never knew?”

“On my honour,” d'Artagnan says, though he has no idea. It doesn’t seem the type of thing Louis would have bothered himself with before Lemaitre and Domingo. He glances at Marmion, now pacing angrily in the space behind Louis. “Your master’s mad, you know. This is not going to end well.”

“My brother,” Robert mutters miserably.

“Brother,” d'Artagnan repeats softly. That explains some things.

“He swore no one would be hurt. It was only – he said he wanted to talk to the king! To explain – he lost _everything_ in Gerberoy, wife and two boys. He _swore_ no one would be hurt.”

d'Artagnan looks past him again. “The queen, and the prince. Can you get them out?” Robert wavers, and d'Artagnan insists “If you get them away, Robert, safely away, I will plead for Marmion in front of the king. I give you my word. He can’t go free, but I will do what I can for him.”

Robert stares at him for a long moment. “His name is Jacques.”

“Jacques,” d'Artagnan echoes. “I will do what I can for Jacques.”

“He promised me no one would be hurt,” Robert says quietly, and d'Artagnan can hear the mourning in it.

“I need you to go,” d'Artagnan tells him. “If your brother touches the king, if he touches the Dauphin, I will stop him. You’ve seen me fight. I make no promises about his survival if I have to stop him. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Go.”

Robert slips away. d'Artagnan goes back to the Dauphin, lifting him out of Constance’s arms.

“What’s going to happen, Charl?” the boy asks in Spanish.

“We’re going to be fine,” d'Artagnan assures him. “Your mother and brother are being rescued right now, say nothing Henri, we need to keep everyone here just a little longer. We’ll be walking out of here soon, I promise.” Louis doesn’t react, but he’s heard it, d'Artagnan knows.

Marmion pauses in front of them, scowling. “What are you doing?”

“I want Mama,” the Dauphin says in clear French.

“I can take you to your mama right now.”

“And Charl.”

Marmion crouches, studying him. “No. You can have your mama, or your Charl. Which do you want?”

“You’re not being fair,” Constance protests. “He’s three years old! He doesn’t even know what you’re saying!”

“Charl come to Mama,” the Dauphin suggests.

“No.” Marmion pushes to his feet. “Give him to the woman.” d'Artagnan doesn’t move; Marmion sighs, drawing his pistol and aiming it at Louis. “Give his highness to the woman.”

d'Artagnan still doesn’t move, but Constance stands to take the Dauphin from him. Marmion waves them away a few steps, out of easy reach for d'Artagnan.

“Now,” Marmion says with a smile d'Artagnan doesn’t trust in the slightest. “Let’s try something different. You are his guard, yes?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says warily.

“And you gave your freedom for the king’s?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your loyalty now? The king or the prince?”

“I serve the royal family. What’s your _point_ , Marmion?” Almost, almost he says ‘Jacques’, but he can’t afford to raise questions yet. Not until Robert has enough time to get the queen and prince away.

“You serve the royal family,” Marmion echoes. “Then here is a way for you to serve them. I will give you a chance to save one of them.” He gestures behind himself. “The woman may take the Dauphin and leave. Or, the king may leave. But the one who stays here will die.”

Aramis is shouting. d'Artagnan can hear the sound, but not the words. There’s a roaring noise in his ears blocking everything else out.

Aramis is suddenly silent. d'Artagnan turns, light headed, to see him on his knees, shaking off what must have been another hit. He looks up to meet d'Artagnan’s eyes and d'Artagnan can’t read his expression at all; it might as well be a stranger wearing his brother’s uniform.

“Madame,” Louis says, shockingly clear. “Take the Dauphin and leave.”

“Ah ah!” Marmion says chidingly. “It must be his decision.”

“ _Why_?” Louis demands.

“I am curious to see what he will choose.” He turns back to d'Artagnan. “You gave your freedom for the king’s. I can see you would give your life for the boy’s. Give your conscience. Condemn one to save the other.”

“You can’t ask him to make that choice,” Constance protests. The Dauphin is watching, wide eyed, and d'Artagnan prays with everything he has that he doesn’t understand what’s being said.

“d'Artagnan, save the Dauphin,” Louis says evenly.

“If you do,” Marmion says quickly, “you will personally execute the king.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head helplessly. This can’t possibly be real. He can’t make this choice; there’s no way.

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis says from behind him. d'Artagnan turns, and the sorrow and shame in Aramis’ eyes confuse him so that he barely hears the words. “You heard the order. _Save the Dauphin_.”

“The next person who speaks, I will cut the Dauphin,” Marmion announces. Aramis flinches, eyes holding d'Artagnan’s.

“Make your choice, d'Artagnan,” Marmion murmurs. “Or I will shoot the Musketeer, and you will still have to choose.”

d'Artagnan’s trembling; he can feel himself do it. Everything else, though, is distant and muffled.

The Dauphin is still in Constance’s arms, watching him curiously. There’s not a trace of fear in his eyes.

Louis’ chin is up and he’s watching far more intently. There’s fear in his eyes, but he’s holding it back.

“Choose,” Marmion hisses.

“I –“

“Choose!”

d'Artagnan flinches. He’s been given his orders, he can’t fight them off, no matter what it costs him. “Constance.” His voice is shaking. “Take the Dauphin and leave.”

“Charl!” the Dauphin protests, reaching for him.

d'Artagnan kisses his forehead, then Constance’s. “God forgive me,” he breathes into her hair. “Please forgive me.”

Constance doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t look at him. She just wraps the screaming Dauphin in her arms and hurries out the way Marmion points.

“Thank you,” Aramis breathes, and when d'Artagnan looks at him he’s weeping. “Thank you, d'Artagnan.”

“Thank you,” Louis echoes. d'Artagnan looks over at him dazedly; Louis is pale and clearly terrified, but he’s sitting straight and quiet in his chair.

“Now.” Marmion primes a second pistol; aiming his own at Aramis, he offers the second to d'Artagnan. “I have released the Dauphin. The king’s life is now forfeit.” He presses the pistol into d'Artagnan’s hands.

d'Artagnan stares at it uncomprehendingly. Marmion puts a hand on his shoulder, turning him so he’s looking at the king. “Shoot him,” he orders.

“What?” d'Artagnan says faintly.

“My men can still catch up to the Dauphin,” Marmion says warningly. “Shoot the king. Kill him.”

“I’m –“ d'Artagnan looks pleadingly at Louis.

“Aim,” Louis says evenly.

“Henri…”

“Charles,” he says firmly. “Aim it at me.”

“I can’t shoot you!”

“Aim the pistol!” Aramis snaps in Spanish. d'Artagnan obeys without thinking. His hand’s shaking so much it’s an even chance he’ll miss Louis no matter carefully he aims.

Marmion solves that problem by stepping into him, bracing his arm to keep it steady. “Shoot.”

“I can’t –“

“ _Shoot_ him.”

“Please.” Begging has never worked, it doesn’t work, it just makes them laugh and kick harder, but maybe this time…

“Shoot the king or I will bring the Dauphin back here and kill him in front of you!”

“Shoot,” Aramis says from behind them.

“Shoot,” Louis echoes from in front.

d'Artagnan can’t see anything through his tears. He squeezes the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all just pretend there was another eclipse four years after the first, ok? It's hardly the worst thing I've done to history in this story. :D


	8. Chapter 8

Someone bursts in, shouting and firing. d'Artagnan jerks the pistol upwards, shoving desperately at Marmion to knock him off balance. The shot impacts in the ceiling somewhere.

Off balance from shoving Marmion, vision still blocked, d'Artagnan can’t keep himself from falling. Someone kicks him in the ribs – a glancing blow, he’s not sure whoever it was even knows he was there – and he curls around it, one arm wrapped over his head to shield it. Porthos is shouting, somewhere not very far away.

“There you are!”

 _Rochefort._ d'Artagnan unfolds himself enough to see that Rochefort has pinned Marmion to the floor, sword at his throat.

“Stop,” he croaks. No one hears him – he barely hears himself – and he drags himself upright, pushing at Rochefort’s leg. “Stop.”

Rochefort knocks him aside without looking at him, sword raised for the blow. d'Artagnan forces himself between them, almost on top of Marmion, who’s lying very, very still. “Rochefort, stop!”

“This man threatened the royal family. His life is forfeit. Move aside, d'Artagnan.”

“I gave my word. Stand down.”

Rochefort studies him. “Do you think I won’t move you? You can’t stop me.”

“I can’t,” d'Artagnan agrees. His gaze flickers past Rochefort and back to him. “They will. Stand down, Rochefort.”

Rochefort drops into a crouch without looking behind himself. “We heard your little deal, you know. Do you think you’ll still be in favour now?”

“It didn’t occur to me to worry about my _standing_ while I was trying to save lives.” d'Artagnan lashes out with one foot, catching Rochefort’s knee; he topples with a shout, losing his sword as he goes down. Porthos leans in to kick it away from him, scowling.

d'Artagnan draws in a breath, looking at Porthos. “The Queen? Philippe?”

“Safe. Robert brought them out.”

“Good.” d'Artagnan looks back at Rochefort, glaring at them from his sprawled position. “I bought their lives with the promise of Marmion’s. He doesn’t die. Understand?”

Rochefort doesn’t answer, but Porthos nods. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Come on, you.” He hauls Marmion to his feet, dragging him away.

d'Artagnan draws two breaths. When he opens his eyes again Rochefort is gone and Athos is crouched in front of him, studying him. “Are you hurt?”

d'Artagnan thinks about it, but he can’t really feel anything. He obviously takes too long to come up with an answer, because when he looks up again Aramis is there as well.

“…on the head, but he didn’t seem – d'Artagnan,” Aramis interrupts himself.

“Where’s the Dauphin?” d'Artagnan asks.

“He’s safe outside,” Athos assures him. “We met him and Constance, they’re with Robert and the queen.”

“I should go.” d'Artagnan hesitates, looking at Aramis. “Am I still -?”

“Still?” Aramis prompts, pressing lightly against his ribs.

“His guard – ow,” he adds when Aramis touches the part d'Artagnan knows should hurt.

“Of course you are,” Athos says in surprise. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Rochefort said you heard.”

“I heard you following the king’s orders, not –“

“Ow,” d'Artagnan interrupts him as Aramis presses against his thigh. That doesn’t hurt either, but he knows there’s an injury there.

“I need to see the Dauphin,” he murmurs. Aramis nods, face solemn.

“Cracked ribs,” he announces to Athos. “I don’t like that head injury, but I think he’ll be all right. Let’s get him out of here.”

“Where’s the king?” d'Artagnan asks abruptly.

“Already out,” Athos assures him. “I sent Rochefort to take him out. What did you promise Marmion?”

“Not Marmion –“ d'Artagnan gasps in a breath as Aramis helps him upright. “Robert,” he says when he can breathe again. “I promised him if he brought the queen and Philippe to safety, I would speak for Marmion with the king. Marmion’s crazy with grief.”

“The man forced that choice on you,” Aramis points out.

“He hadn’t done that then,” d'Artagnan mutters. “Robert’s his brother. Marmion’s wife and two sons died in their village because the guards blockaded it for plague and didn’t provide any supplies. That’s why he did all this. He’s insane, not evil.” He looks at Athos. “I gave my word, and Robert did his part.”

“I’ll see he isn’t killed,” Athos says with a sigh. “I can’t speak to his comfort, but he won’t die.”

“Thank you.”

They reach the slope leading up to the carriages. d'Artagnan hesitates, looking at it; Aramis wraps an arm around him to take his weight, helping him up. There are figures at the top, but d'Artagnan can’t see them clearly; he focuses on his feet instead, trying not to make it any harder on Aramis. When he reaches the top of the slope he looks up and meets Louis’ eyes.

d'Artagnan falls to his knees without thought. “Your majesty…”

“Charles.” Louis kneels right there in front of him. He’s been crying, d'Artagnan can see the marks on his face. “Thank you.”

“Your majesty…”

“Henri. Or Louis, if you’d rather.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“I’ve told you, Charles. More than once, as I recall. You are never sorry in my presence. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “I played your life against the Dauphin’s.”

“You did exactly what I wanted you to do, Charles. As you ever have.”

It’s too much; d'Artagnan can’t follow what’s being said any more. Aramis must have recognised it, because he vaguely hears his voice and then there’s a hand on his arm, drawing him up. d'Artagnan follows the pull without thought.

Constance is standing in front of him, and the Dauphin is in her arms, reaching eagerly towards d’Artagnan.

d'Artagnan sinks to his knees again, physically unable to stay upright any longer. Constance lets the Dauphin down and he throws himself into d'Artagnan’s arms. d'Artagnan buries his face in the child’s neck, letting the rest of the world fade away.

 

The Dauphin has a night nurse, and a nanny, and maids. Tonight he doesn’t want any of them; only d'Artagnan and Constance. He sits in d'Artagnan’s lap, curled against him, hands knotted in Constance’s sleeves. He doesn’t sleep, only dozes, jerking awake every time one of them moves.

Aramis says he’s not injured. d'Artagnan trusts him. But he’s glad the boy doesn’t want to be far from him, because he doesn’t think he could bear having any distance between them right now.

He hasn’t spoken much to Constance. Only banalities; only the necessities of ‘if you move there, I can sit here’. He doesn’t dare ask how she is, or how she feels about what’s happened today. He’s terrified she’ll blame him.

There are bruises on her wrists where she was tied. He aches to touch them, and doesn’t dare.

The queen comes in, sometime shortly before sundown. Neither d'Artagnan nor Constance can stand, but they bow as best they can. The Dauphin sniffles unhappily, pressing into d'Artagnan’s grip without waking.

The queen sits carefully on d'Artagnan’s other side, reaching out to touch her son’s hair. “Is he well?”

“Only frightened, I think,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “You’d be proud, your majesty. He was very brave.”

“He was. And I am.” Her hand leaves the Dauphin’s hair and cups d'Artagnan’s cheek. “Of all of you. Louis told me what you did.”

d'Artagnan flinches, pulling away from her grip. “I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? For protecting my son?”

“For condemning his father.”

Something flickers in her expression and is gone before he can read it. “Louis told me that he told you to make that choice.”

“I should have – there should have been another way…”

“Charles.” She touches his cheek again, guiding his eyes up to hers despite his reluctance. “The only blame here – the _only_ blame – lies with Marmion. Do you understand me?”

He nods as best he can. “I promised to speak for him to Louis.”

“I heard. I will make sure you have that chance.”

She starts to withdraw; d'Artagnan catches her wrist, though he immediately lets go again. “I don’t condone anything he did, your majesty, not one moment of it. But I gave my word. And I do believe he’s insane, not evil.”

“Evil might be better,” Constance murmurs. “Murderers only hang. Madmen are locked away.”

“I’ll speak to Robert and see what he wants,” d'Artagnan says tiredly.

“Not tonight,” Anne says, watching in amusement as the Dauphin protests sleepily when Constance shifts. “I don’t believe either of you are going anywhere tonight.”

The Dauphin blinks, opening tired eyes. “Mama,” he says happily.

“Dieudonné,” she replies softly. “How are you?”

“Is the bad man here?”

“No, my love. He’s locked away safe. He won’t come here again.”

“He made everyone angry and sad,” the boy says sadly.

“I know he did. But we’re home now, and safe.” She glances up at them. “Can you let go of Madame Bonacieux, love? She needs to go and clean up.”

“No, Mama, no!” the Dauphin protests, trying to climb across d'Artagnan to reach Constance. He manages to elbow d'Artagnan in the cracked ribs and for a long moment d'Artagnan can’t see or breathe properly.

When his vision clears Constance has one hand on his arm. The Dauphin is crouched in Anne’s arms, watching him through terrified eyes.

“I’m fine,” he lies instinctively. “I’m fine, your highness.”

“Charles has a sore side and we must be very careful,” Anne tells him. “Now, shall I call your nurse for you?”

“Want Tan.” The Dauphin bursts into tears.

Anne rocks and soothes him to calm, though she’s clearly close to tears herself. When the boy has stopped crying, rubbing away tears with a tiny fist, d'Artagnan eases off the bed to sit on the floor beside them.

“We’ve talked about responsibility, haven’t we, your highness?” he says softly, glancing apologetically at Anne. She nods for him to continue, still rocking the Dauphin gently. “Madame Bonacieux is your servant, and that means you have a responsibility to make sure she’s looked after. You should let her go and see Aramis to make sure she’s not hurt.”

The boy sniffs, rubbing his eyes again; it’s tiredness this time, they can all see it. “Tan?”

“Yes, your highness,” Constance says, joining them all on the floor.

“Come back tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

He nods. “Go not be hurt.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

d'Artagnan can’t help himself; he catches her wrist, pressing the softest kiss to the bruised, scraped flesh. “No sad,” he tells her with a smile.

“That’s my line,” she tells him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

“Constance…”

“Later,” she promises, eyes flickering to the Dauphin and back to him. “I’m not angry,” she adds softly, and he nods.

“Into bed, Dieudonné,” Anne says when Constance is gone.

He glances at d'Artagnan, who promises, “I’m staying here, your highness. But you do need to get into bed, and if you don’t want Mary…”

“No Mary.” The Dauphin scrambles in by himself, curling into a ball among the many blankets.

“Good boy,” d'Artagnan says, retreating to the window with the queen.

“Responsibility?” she murmurs.

“I don’t think it’s ever too early to learn, your majesty. Marmion was angry because he thought Louis had shirked his responsibilities. Maybe we can avoid that happening again.”

“You’re a good man, Charles,” she says quietly. “Too good for Court, I’m afraid.”

“I am as I am.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Are you badly hurt?”

“No. Not badly. I won’t be sword fighting for a while, but Athos will train the Dauphin. Someone needs to talk to Treville, though, I’ll need someone to help me guard the Dauphin for the next few weeks.”

Anne nods. “I’ll take care of it.”

The Dauphin shifts and d'Artagnan glances back at him. “Your highness?”

“Come here, Charl,” the Dauphin asks.

“Coming,” d'Artagnan says quickly, bowing to Anne. She smiles faintly, letting herself out of the room. d'Artagnan goes back to the Dauphin, settling on the side of the bed. The boy curls against him, slipping into sleep.

 

It’s two days later when Aramis comes to d'Artagnan in the gardens.

The Dauphin has calmed considerably – childish memories, d'Artagnan thinks; in another few days he’ll likely have forgotten altogether, though they’ll need to make sure no one wears bird masks at the next costume ball. Louis, though slightly more inclined to have his wife and children close, is essentially unharmed. Constance spent a day unable to move her hands without pain but she, too, is recovering. Anne was never physically hurt at all.

d'Artagnan sees Aramis coming, directs the Dauphin to Porthos who’s been helping him for the past couple of days, and goes to meet Aramis. They wander to a space out of earshot of anyone, but still within sight, just in case they’re needed.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asks quietly.

“Sore,” d'Artagnan says honestly. 

“Yes. I suppose you would be. Do you want me to look at it?”

“It’s nothing. It’ll heal.” d'Artagnan studies him for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Aramis repeats vaguely.

“Aramis.”

Aramis takes off his hat, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise?”

“For – in the observatory.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I told you to save the Dauphin. I ordered you to.”

“So did Louis,” d'Artagnan says, still not sure what’s going on.

“Louis doesn’t know what orders do to you.”

“That –“ d'Artagnan shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aramis, it _doesn’t matter_.”

“I shouldn’t…” Aramis shudders. “I shouldn’t have – I couldn’t risk him dying.”

“The Dauphin?” d'Artagnan shakes his head. “I know you love him, Aramis, but –“

“He’s mine,” Aramis breathes. “Oh god, d'Artagnan, he’s mine.”

It doesn’t make sense, not for far too long. When he does understand, d'Artagnan turns sharply away, trying to calm down. “When the hell – the convent. Yes?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispers.

“Running from assassins, that seemed like a good time to commit treason?”

“It wasn’t…”

“It’s treason,” d’Artagnan says flatly. “You know it is. Who knows about this?”

“Athos.”

“Just Athos?”

“We weren’t exactly proclaiming it from the rooftops.”

“This is not the time for jokes,” d’Artagnan warns him. “What about Constance?”

“I don’t know. Anne may have told her.”

“ _The Queen_ ,” d’Artagnan says tightly. “Not Anne, Aramis. _The Queen._ ”

“The Queen,” Aramis repeats quietly. “d’Artagnan, I’m sorry…”

“What did you think I would say?” d’Artagnan demands. “Louis is my friend, Aramis! How am I supposed to – what about Philippe?”

“Philippe’s not mine. I don’t know if he’s L – the King’s, but he’s not mine.”

“Careful,” d’Artagnan warns him. Aramis flinches, spreading his hands apologetically.

d’Artagnan draws in a breath. “I can’t talk to you about this right now.”

“d’Artagnan, if anyone finds out, the King will set her aside,” Aramis says urgently.

“If you think I would do that, you don’t know me as well as you think you do. Go away, Aramis.”

“d’Artagnan…”

“Go. _Away_. Aramis. We’ll talk about this later.”

Aramis studies him for a moment before backing away a couple of steps. d’Artagnan turns away, looking towards the royal party. Porthos looks up, catching his eye; d’Artagnan gestures to let him know he’s leaving and heads back to his room.

He’s been lying on his bed, staring at nothing, for a while, when there’s a knock at his door. He doesn’t answer, but after a moment Constance slips in. “d’Artagnan?”

“What is it?”

She hesitates for a moment. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong,” he repeats. “What would be wrong?”

“d’Artagnan…”

“This isn’t a good time, Constance.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Constance…” d’Artagnan stands, crossing to the window. “Just – not right now. I’ll talk to you later. I promise.” He can’t talk to her until he knows if she knows, and there’s no way to ask her without giving Aramis away. He’ll have to talk to Anne first.

“I can’t help?”

“It’s not something that needs help. Thank you.” He forces a smile, wondering if it looks as unconvincing as it feels.

Constance studies him for a moment before nodding. “All right. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Later,” he echoes, watching her leave.

After a moment he crosses the room and locks the door.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes longer than he thought it would for anyone to come after him.

He sends away the page with his meal; he sends away the maid who comes to tidy the room. Porthos comes to tell him the Dauphin’s settled for the night, but d’Artagnan refuses to open the door and Porthos doesn’t push it. At some point, it occurs to him to be grateful the Dauphin hasn’t called for him; he’s not sure what he’d do.

Athos knocks on the door the next morning. There’s no other key for the door – it’s part of the defences for the Dauphin, a room no one can get into – but d’Artagnan knows well enough that Athos will stand out there for as long as it takes. He unlocks the door.

Athos clearly knows something has happened. He watches quietly as d’Artagnan retreats to the window, leaning against the windowsill. “Come to plead Aramis’ case?”

“I wasn’t aware it needed pleading,” Athos says carefully. “Madame Bonacieux seems to think you’re upset.”

“Does she,” d’Artagnan says vaguely.

“And I can see why,” Athos murmurs. “Has something happened, d’Artagnan?”

“Not recently.”

“d’Artagnan –“

“Were you ever planning on telling me that the boy I’ve devoted my life to is not the Dauphin of France?”

Athos goes very, very still. “Of course he is.”

“He’s not Louis’ son,” d’Artagnan hisses. “I know that you know, Athos.”

“d’Artagnan…”

“Aramis ordered me to commit regicide to protect him, did you know?”

Athos hesitates. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Fair! I’m party to treason! What’s fair here?”

“He didn’t mean –“

“He never _means_.” d’Artagnan’s tired, suddenly, sinking onto the bed. “I’m sure he didn’t _mean_ to commit treason, and I’m sure he didn’t _mean_ to make you commit treason, and I’m sure he didn’t _mean_ to make me commit treason. But he has. How do you – what am I supposed to do, Athos? Louis is my friend, and the Dauphin – oh, God, how do I look at him?”

“The Dauphin had nothing to do with it,” Athos points out.

d’Artagnan shakes his head. “It’s treason to let him ascend the throne, Athos,” he breathes. “How can I do it?”

“He’s still the Queen’s son.” Athos watches him for a moment. “d’Artagnan – Aramis is your friend as well, is he not?"

“You don’t want me to answer that right now,” d’Artagnan mutters.

“You’re still a Musketeer, d’Artagnan, your loyalty should not be solely with the king.”

“The _king_ is the wronged party here!” d’Artagnan hisses. “The _king_ has been cuckolded by a man who swore loyalty to him!”

Athos’ eyes narrowed. “Aramis was not alone in the Queen’s bed, d’Artagnan.”

For a moment d’Artagnan’s too stunned to speak. Athos takes a sudden step forward and d’Artagnan drags in a breath, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. “Get out.”

“D’Artagnan…”

“You don’t want to be here right now, Athos. Get out.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“No. You need to leave.”

“d’Artagnan –“

“Get out!”

There’s a dagger in his hand. He doesn’t remember picking it up. Athos is staring at him.

“Get out,” d’Artagnan repeats, just above a whisper. Athos backs towards the door, closing it carefully.

d’Artagnan locks the door and goes back to the window, sinking down to sit on the floor. It’s a long time before he can make himself let go of the dagger.

 

Porthos comes to the door in the middle of the next morning. “d'Artagnan?”

He has to swallow a couple of times before he can answer. “What is it?”

“Athos said you aren’t feeling well, but the Dauphin’s looking for you. Can you come talk to him? Or I can bring him here.”

“I’m coming.” d'Artagnan pushes to his feet. He’s stiff and his side is screaming, but he makes it to his ewer, splashes water on his face. He almost trips over the discarded dagger; he thinks about putting it away, but he’s not quite sure he trusts himself to hold it right now.

Porthos raises an eyebrow when he opens the door. “What’s up with you?”

d'Artagnan can’t remember when he last ate. He hasn’t slept in at least two days. He knows how he must look. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Where’s the Dauphin?”

“In the playroom. d'Artagnan –“

d'Artagnan turns, heading for the playroom. “Need you to guard him for a couple of days.”

“Of course,” Porthos says automatically.

d'Artagnan glances sidewards at him. “You. Not Athos or Aramis, not Thierry, not any of the garde du corps. Just you. Promise me.”

Porthos catches his arm; d'Artagnan flinches violently enough that he almost goes into a wall, and Porthos lets go in surprise. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t –“ d'Artagnan flinches again at his look. “Not yet,” he corrects himself. “Just – please promise me. Let me put him in your hands.”

Porthos studies him for a moment. “Athos knows what’s wrong?”

“More or less.”

“And Aramis?”

d'Artagnan looks away. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Aramis knows.”

Porthos is silent. d'Artagnan glances towards him without meeting his eyes. “I’ll tell you. I promise. But not yet. Please?”

“If I go to Athos,” Porthos says slowly, “will he tell me?”

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t know why they told _me._ I wish they hadn’t.”

“It’s serious, huh?”

“No one’s dying.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you probably think it is.”

“The Dauphin?” d'Artagnan reminds him.

“Yeah. I got him. You do what you need to. But this lasts any length, I’m going to the others.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan murmurs, turning away to hurry to the play room. Sarah, one of the maids, is playing with the Dauphin; she glances up when d'Artagnan comes in, bowing briefly and moving to the window, out of the way.

“Charl!” the Dauphin cheers, scrambling to his feet.

“Careful, your highness,” d'Artagnan says quickly, and the boy hesitates. “Sore side, remember?”

“Careful,” he agrees, coming to d'Artagnan’s other side for a hug. “Charl sad?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmurs, holding on for a moment before letting him go. “I’m sad.”

“No sad,” he says hopefully.

d'Artagnan smiles, touching his hair – curls, why didn’t he ever see it before, much closer to Aramis’ curls than Louis’ waves. “I’m trying, your highness. I need to go away for just a day or two. Porthos is going to stay with you, all right?”

“No,” the Dauphin says firmly. “Charl stays.”

“No, your highness. I have to go. I’ll come back.”

“Promise,” he demands.

“I promise.”

The Dauphin hugs him again. d'Artagnan allows himself to hold on for just a moment; then he lets go, easing back. “Porthos.”

“I got it,” Porthos promises. d'Artagnan stands, turning and walking away.

The Queen is in her rooms. d'Artagnan waits patiently while he’s announced, and once she sees him she dismisses all her ladies. Constance lingers by the door, clearly uncertain.

“I need to speak with her majesty alone, Constance,” d'Artagnan says apologetically. It’s a serious breach of proprietary and custom, and the Queen would never even consider granting it for anyone else; it feels wrong to trade on his status like this, but there’s simply no other way to have this conversation.

“You can wait outside,” Anne tells Constance. “I’ll call at once if we need anything.” Constance bows, backing out of the room and closing the door, and Anne turns to d'Artagnan. “Are you all right, Charles? You look ill.”

“I have to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“And I really don’t want to.”

“All right,” she says more warily.

“I need to know, your majesty, so that I can decide what to do.”

“Ask your question.” She’s afraid, now, he can see it in her.

“Who is the Dauphin’s father?”

Anne pales terribly, but she keeps her head up. “That question is treason.”

“A lot of things are treason lately, your majesty.” Anne makes a choked noise. “I’ve spoken with Aramis. I know what I’m asking. Please tell me who Philippe’s father is.”

“Will you believe my answer?”

“Always.”

Anne nods, drawing in a breath. “Philippe is Louis’ son.”

“And does anyone else know about the Dauphin?”

“Not from me. d'Artagnan, please…”

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers. Anne has been reaching for him; now she hesitates, and he continues “It’s treason, your majesty, anything I do is treason, doing _nothing_ is treason, I can’t…” He breaks off, sliding to the floor.

Anne kneels next to him. “I won’t try to tell you what you should do. But I will remind you what will happen if you bring this into the open.”

“I know what will happen –“

“Aramis will be executed,” she continues quickly. “Probably Athos, as well. Louis will be forced to set me and my sons aside – both of them, he won’t be able to trust Philippe is his. The boys will grow up in isolation and seclusion. It will kill Louis. He loves them so.”

“That’s not fair,” d'Artagnan breathes.

“You love him, d'Artagnan, I know you do. And you love the Dauphin –“

“Stop –“

“- if you do this thing, you will destroy them –“

“ _Stop_.”

Anne is close to tears. “I won’t plead for myself, d'Artagnan, but my sons…”

“Stop.” d'Artagnan pulls away from her, scrambling across the floor until he’s far enough from her to stand. “Just – I don’t – how could you, your majesty?”

Anne draws in a shaky breath, rising to her feet and brushing at her skirts. “I expected to die in that convent, Charles. I thought that – the touch of a man who loved me –“

“Louis loves you!”

“As a sister. As a confidante – not as a woman. He’s never seen me that way.” She looks away, sitting on the edge of the nearest chair. “It seemed little enough to ask, on my last day.”

d'Artagnan kneels in front of her. He’s trembling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. “Is he Aramis’? Are you certain?”

“Certain,” she agrees shakily. “There was – close enough for Louis to believe – but no.” She watches him for a moment. “What will you do?” Her voice is shaking.

“I don’t know.” d'Artagnan rises again, turning away. “I can’t – I have to think. You gave me time, once, for a decision not half so important as this. Will you give me time now?”

“Yes. All that you need.”

He looks at her again. “Have you – since then?”

“Never,” Anne says quietly. “I swear it. I’ll be faithful to Louis until we both die. I can’t regret it – not for Dieudonné – but it will never happen again.”

d'Artagnan nods quietly. “Please don’t excuse Constance to come to me. I can’t see her right now.”

“I’ll keep her with me,” Anne agrees.

“Thank you.” He makes a short bow and hurries out. Constance calls after him, but he doesn’t turn.

 

d'Artagnan returns to his room and locks the door. He ignores the maid; he ignores the page boy. He ignores Porthos and Athos – Aramis seems to know better than to try. Constance he asks to leave and then ignores.

The day passes. The night passes. He barely registers any of it.

Athos is back at the door, he realises dreamily. How long has he been there? A while, from the frustration in his voice.

“- that you’re angry, you have every right. I don’t expect you to talk to me, but you do need to eat, d'Artagnan. Open the door or I will have Porthos break it down.”

“You can’t.” d'Artagnan almost chokes on the words, throat terribly dry. He clears it several times. “You can’t,” he says again, “it’s designed not to.”

“We’ll get through it,” Athos says, and d'Artagnan has no doubt that it’ll happen eventually. It’ll definitely attract attention, though, and Athos can’t want that any more than d'Artagnan does.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Athos says more quietly. “You don’t have to look at me; I’ll leave. But there is a tray out here, and I want your word that you’ll eat.”

“Eat,” d'Artagnan repeats.

“Your maid says you haven’t let her bring you food in two days. You need to eat, d'Artagnan.”

“The maid doesn’t bring –“ d'Artagnan shakes his head, guessing that Athos has no idea which servant does what. “I’m not hungry.”

“All the more reason to eat. d'Artagnan, _please_.”

d'Artagnan leans against the door. He doesn’t dare open it, not yet. “I haven’t decided anything.”

“I don’t care about that. I care about _you_.” Silence, for a long time, and eventually Athos sighs. “I’ll leave the tray. Just – _please_ – eat?”

d'Artagnan’s so tired. He unlocks the door and lets it fall open. Athos is watching, warily, from a few paces away.

He really was leaving.

“I don’t want to talk,” d'Artagnan warns him. “Not about anything.” Athos bows acknowledgment and d'Artagnan backs into the room; he doesn’t trust his balance to pick up the tray from the floor. Athos does it for him, putting the tray carefully on his desk and crossing to lean against the wall by the window.

He steps over the discarded dagger on his way.

d'Artagnan picks at the tray. The thought of food turns his stomach, but there’s fruit; he mostly manages that. Athos watches in silence.

“How do you justify it?” d'Artagnan asks abruptly. 

Athos shifts slightly. “I remind myself that bringing it to light can only mean pain for everyone involved.”

“It’s that easy to justify treason?”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos says tiredly. “You, above anyone, should know that decisions are not always black and white. You swore service to Spain to protect France.”

“Not _Spain_.”

“Details.”

“Louis doesn’t have friends, Athos. He has subjects. There’s only me – how can I look at him if I keep this from him?”

“Can you look at him if you _don’t_ keep this from him? If you take his wife and his sons and his faith in his Musketeers from him?”

“I wouldn’t be the one –“ d'Artagnan stutters to a halt.

Athos watches him with something like sympathy in his eyes. “Do you think we haven’t had these arguments, Aramis and I?”

“Who’s on which side?”

“It varies from time to time. Aramis is usually on the side of throwing himself on the pyre.”

“He committed treason.”

“He followed his blood. As he always does; as he always will. It’s saved you more than once.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head, looking away.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos says softly. “Are you still a Musketeer?”

“Yes. No, I’m – I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He meets Athos’ eyes for a moment. “If I say no?”

“If you say no, you will have any help I can give you to do whatever it is you decide you want to do.”

“Am I still a Musketeer?”

“Always.”

“Even if I go to Louis?”

Athos takes a deep breath. “If you do as your conscience bids you, then you are always a Musketeer, d'Artagnan. Always.”

“And your brother?”

“Always,” he repeats without hesitation.

d'Artagnan turns away, rubbing his face tiredly. “We have to tell Porthos.” Athos is silent and d'Artagnan insists, “We have to. He’s seen me; he knows something’s wrong. It’s not fair for him.”

“I’ll speak to Aramis. Do you want to be there?”

“You want me to make a decision now?”

Athos sighs. “Again?”

“It’ll pass, it passes.” Difficulty with decisions comes and goes, though it hasn’t been a problem for a while now. Luckily; as badly as he handled Marmion, it would have been much worse if he couldn’t make decisions.

“d'Artagnan.”

“Go and talk to Aramis.”

Athos nods slowly. “Will you eat tonight, or should I come back?”

“I’ll eat,” he mutters. Anything’s better than having Athos stare at him again.

“Good. I’ll talk to Aramis and let you know what he says.”

d'Artagnan nods. “If I’m going to Louis? I’ll let you know first. I won’t – won’t do it without telling you.”

“Thank you,” Athos murmurs, and then he’s gone.

d'Artagnan tries to rest, for a while, but it’s no good. He rolls off the bed and leaves the Dauphin’s suite, heading for Louis’ rooms.

He has free passage anywhere in the palace. It’s never really seemed strange to him, but he’s acutely aware, now, that he’s walking freely through the monarch’s rooms, that he’s trusted here in a way almost no one else is. He breezes through checkpoints even Rochefort, First Minister of France, has to stop at.

Louis is reading in his private sitting room; he glances up at d'Artagnan’s entrance, dismissing his manservant with a gesture. “Charles! How are – you look dreadful,” he says in a different tone.

“I’m – haven’t slept,” d'Artagnan murmurs, dropping to sit on the floor. He does it without thinking, habit ingrained from hours spent with the Queen.

“How can I help?” Louis asks, laying his book aside.

“There’s…” d'Artagnan rubs his hands over his face. “Let’s – pretend,” he says after a moment.

“Like a game,” Louis says, but he’s watching carefully. “Do you play this with the Dauphin?”

“Not this particular pretend, but yes.”

“All right, let’s go.”

“Pretend I know a secret. Something that – it doesn’t hurt you not to know. Telling you would be – it would hurt everyone. It would lead to death for some people. Not telling you is treason.”

“I hope the pretends you give my son are easier than this,” Louis says gently. d'Artagnan flinches, huddling in on himself. “When you say ‘everyone’…”

“Everyone.” d'Artagnan gestures loosely. “Literally, everyone. You included.”

“And it’s treason?”

“Nothing is happening that will hurt you, or your family, or bring any kind of harm to France.”

“That’s good to know, at least.” Louis considers. “This secret. If it goes untold, does it hurt anyone?”

“No.”

“Bring harm to France?”

d'Artagnan swallows. “No.”

Louis studies him. “Is it something you can carry?” he asks softly. "The weight of it, can you bear it?"

“Can you forgive me for keeping it from you?”

“To spare me pain?” Louis laughs softly. “Yes, Charles.”

“It’s big, Henri, it’s so big –“

“It’s forgiven,” Louis tells him. “I will write you a pardon if you need it. Should this terrible secret ever come to light, I will remember that you wanted only to spare me pain, and to save lives.”

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan whispers.

“Charles…”

“Please don’t tell me not to be sorry.”

“There is very little you could do, Charles, that I would feel the need to accept an apology for.”

“I love the Dauphin,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “I would do anything for him. You know that.”

“I have never doubted it.”

“And anything for you.”

“That, I have proof of. Is that your fear? Keeping your secret makes you less loyal? Keep it, Charles. I don’t need it to believe your loyalty.”

“Order it,” d'Artagnan breathes. “Order me to keep it.”

Louis studies him, and d'Artagnan remembers too late that he doesn’t know about his issues with orders; they've managed to hide it and work around it so far. But he says only “Until such time as keeping this secret is more harmful than revealing it, I order you to keep it to yourself. You will not reveal it, through word or hint or look, not to anyone. Understood?”

“Thank you.” d'Artagnan drops his head, forehead pressing against Louis’ hand.

Louis is silent for a moment. “Who’s guarding the Dauphin while you heal?”

“Porthos, mostly.”

“Move out of his apartments. I will have another room given to you. Heal in peace and quiet, away from him.”

“I don’t want to leave him, Henri.”

“A small break only. I know my son; he won’t give you peace to heal. A week, nothing more.”

d'Artagnan nods slowly. Intentional or not, it’s another order, and he’s not in any state to fight it right now. “Thank you. I’m – I told him I’d be gone for a day or two. I’ll have to go back to him.”

“I’ll tell him I’m borrowing you. It’s only for a week.”

“Yes.”

Louis stands, levering him off the floor and into a chair. A manservant appears; Louis gives orders that mostly wash over d'Artagnan without his noticing them. Someone gives him wine; someone else takes the cup away, gets him on his feet and helps him through Louis’ apartments to a room that’s clearly been unused for a while. d'Artagnan slumps onto the bed and lets sleep take him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER DEATH off screen and right at the end. THIS IS IT, PEOPLE.

He sleeps for most of a day. He’s aware of voices at one point – Athos and Constance – but they’re not alarmed, and there’s no attempt to wake him, so he allows himself to stay asleep.

He’s alone when he wakes. He lies for a while, thinking of nothing. His side still aches, and he wonders vaguely if he’s done more damage.

Someone taps at the door. He sits up, drawing his tunic across without putting it on properly, and calls “Come in.” It’s most likely the maid; he can scare her away easily enough.

It’s Constance.

He freezes for just slightly too long, and then tangles himself in the tunic when he tries to pull it on. Constance steps around the bed to help. “Don’t…”

Too late. She reaches for his back, withdraws. “d'Artagnan…”

“Don’t.” He finally gets the tunic on properly, shaking it into place.

“How did…”

“Constance, _please_.” He sounds half panicked, he knows it. “Just – leave it be.”

“What happened?” she asks, and then shakes her head, stepping back around in front of him. “I’m sorry, I – that was a stupid question.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head, drawing her down onto the bed beside him. “Not stupid. Just – hard to talk about.”

“Do they hurt?”

“No. Not at all.” It’s true; they haven’t hurt in more than a year.

Constance reaches for his shoulder, hesitates. “Can I…”

“Yes.” He catches her hand, drawing it down to his shoulder. “There is fine.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I told you, they don’t hurt.”

Constance shakes her head. “Not that kind of hurt.”

d'Artagnan looks away. “I’m –“

“It’s all right,” she says gently, squeezing his shoulder.

“I had a bad couple of days. I’m all right now.”

“Just like that?”

“The King wants me to take a week away from the Dauphin, to let my ribs heal up. Where are we?”

“His apartments. Manservant’s quarters. There’s about six maids waiting outside to clean up in here and move your things over.”

“I don’t need moved over, it’s only for a week.” He blinks suddenly, looking at her. “It is only for a week?”

“As far as I know, yes. Come on. Let’s get something to eat and let the poor girls do their work.”

 _Order_. d'Artagnan rises to get dressed, following her obediently out of the room. He does pull one of the maids aside to tell her that he only needs a couple of changes of clothes moved over; the rest of his few belongings are safe enough where they are, and Porthos won’t disturb them even if he is using the room. The maid bobs an obedient curtesy and d'Artagnan continues with Constance.

“You’re getting good at that,” she murmurs.

“I’m head of the Dauphin’s household; I have to be good at it.” Eventually the Dauphin will be given his own seneschal, but for now the household is small enough, and d'Artagnan trusted enough, that the role falls to him. Anne often says, jokingly, that d'Artagnan’s remit for the Dauphin’s safety means they’ll never be able to place anyone else above him anyway, and it’s true he hasn’t answered to anyone else in some time.

He thinks for a moment they’re heading for Louis’ dining room, but they leave his apartments and start for the gardens. “Where are we going?”

“The Queen asked for you.” He halts and she glances back. “What’s wrong?”

“The Queen asked for me.”

“She often asks for you.” Constance takes his hands, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m – tell her thank you, but I have to go to the garrison. It’s important.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I will. After the garrison.” He kisses Constance’s hands quickly and turns away, leaving her behind again.

He doesn’t allow himself to think that, one of these times, she won’t be there when he comes back.

He doesn’t allow himself to think that that might be better for her.

 

One of the Musketeers on gate duty starts to challenge d'Artagnan before the other stops him. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother stopping, but he does make a mental note to come here more often; he’s still technically a Musketeer, but he’s clearly been away too long if they’re not recognising him. Maybe he should start bringing the Dauphin here. These men will be his bodyguards and servants, after all.

Treville finds him in the armoury, where he’s methodically going through piles of weapons. “Are you looking for something particular?”

“Crossbow.”

Treville frowns, leaning against the doorframe. “A crossbow? That’s not a bodyguard’s weapon. Where did you learn to use a crossbow?”

d'Artagnan can see him realise what the answer has to be, but he says it anyway. “I learned in Spain. They didn’t let me have a pistol.”

“But they let you have a crossbow?”

“I never claimed to understand the Spanish mind.”

“We don’t keep crossbows here, they’re not a Musketeer weapon.”

d'Artagnan sighs, carefully propping the musket in his hands back onto the rack. “No. I should have – sorry.”

“Red Guards would give you a crossbow.”

“Think I’d trust a Red Guard weapon? I’ll commission one. Louis pays me enough.”

“Why do you suddenly need one?”

“It might have saved us all some trouble if I’d been able to shoot Marmion.” d'Artagnan moves to leave, but Treville is blocking the door and he’s not so far gone that he’ll fight past his Captain.

“You saved the Dauphin.”

“I don’t need forgiveness, sir. I know exactly what I did.”

Treville studies him for a moment. “Have I lost you to the Dauphin, d'Artagnan?”

“I don’t – maybe. I don’t know. I have another year and a half before I have to decide.”

He nods slowly. “Until the last few days, I would have said it was good for you.”

d'Artagnan smiles tightly. “I’ll get back there.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Treville moves out of the doorway; he can’t possibly fail to notice the tension bleed out of d'Artagnan, but he doesn’t comment. “I know a good weapons man. Come up to my office, I’ll get you his address.”

“Thank you, sir.” d'Artagnan trails him upstairs, absently noting the half dozen Musketeers he didn’t recognise. “I wanted…”

“Yes?” Treville steps aside to let him into the office, going to rummage through his desk.

“I’m on stand down, for a week. But I thought – I could bring the Dauphin here, afterwards. Meet the men who’ll be protecting him.”

Treville glances up. “Think you’d be allowed?”

d'Artagnan spreads his hands. “I am unquestioned.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “You are.” He holds out a piece of parchment, and d'Artagnan moves to take it. “Until you tell me otherwise, you are a Musketeer, d'Artagnan. The garrison is always open to you. And the Dauphin will one day be the head of the regiment. He, too, is always welcome here.”

“I am a Musketeer,” d'Artagnan says fiercely.

Treville smiles faintly. “I know. It still bothers Rochefort, you know, that you beat his Red Guards to the post.”

“Rochefort.” d'Artagnan smiles. “I think he’s given up.”

“I wouldn’t count on that; he’s smart enough to bide his time.” He nods to the parchment in d'Artagnan’s hand. “Tell Mssr le Borge that I sent you.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

 

When d'Artagnan returns to the palace he’s stopped four different times to tell him that the King is in the garden with the Dauphin and his presence is requested. By the fifth servant d'Artagnan just says “Garden?” without stopping.

The Queen is also present. d'Artagnan bows to her without any of the warmth and familiarity she’s used to, and he knows she sees it. Rochefort, lurking nearby, probably sees it as well, but d'Artagnan is so far beyond caring what the First Minister thinks.

The Dauphin throws himself at d'Artagnan, forgetting the injured side again. d'Artagnan controls his reaction, smiling at the boy’s delighted “Charl!”

“Are you behaving for Porthos, your highness?” he asks, setting the boy on his feet.

“He doesn’t talk like you.”

“He doesn’t know much Spanish,” d'Artagnan agrees. “Are you behaving?”

“When you’re coming back?”

“Ah,” Louis murmurs. “Come here, my boy.”

Even at this age, the Dauphin is too well trained to ignore an order from the King. He crosses obediently to stand by Louis’ chair.

“Now,” Louis says, “I have a very important mission. I need someone very brave, and very loyal, to do it for me. Do you think I could borrow Charles?”

“My Charl,” he protests.

“Yes,” Louis agrees, meeting d'Artagnan’s eyes for a fraction of a second. “He is your Charles. But I need him. Just for a little while.”

“How long?”

Louis spreads out seven fingers. “Seven days. This many.”

“And then my Charl back?”

“Yes, my boy. Then he’s all yours again.”

The boy nods, stepping away from Louis to approach d'Artagnan, who kneels to meet him. “Do the mission,” he orders, “and come back home to your Dauphin.”

d'Artagnan nods, smiling gently at him. “You have my word, your highness.”

 

Constance joins d'Artagnan on the way back to the palace. “A mission?” she asks softly.

“Yes, the dangerous and risky mission of ‘hide in my room and rest’.”

“When you’re talking about Musketeers, that’s practically impossible,” she agrees. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit sore. His Highness managed to knee me in the side again.”

“I saw that,” Constance agrees with a smile. “Want me to look at it?”

“No. Thank you. I’m all right.”

“Hmm. I’ll believe you for now.”

He smiles, kissing her hand quickly. “Keep an eye on the Dauphin for me? He’ll probably play up to Porthos, but he knows you.”

“I will,” she agrees, smiling as she heads back towards the others.

d'Artagnan goes back to his room and falls asleep almost straight away. He wakes in the early morning, stiff and unable to rise, and has to call for one of Louis’ manservants to help him up.

He’s shuffling back and forth, trying to loosen his muscles, when there’s a knock at the door. “Who’s there?”

“Aramis.”

d'Artagnan frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“I was told you were hurt.”

“Oh. Come in. I’m fine, just stiff.”

Aramis lets himself in, watching as d'Artagnan crosses the room again. “The ribs?”

“I knocked them yesterday.”

“You should be careful. Sit, please.”

d'Artagnan obeys. "I spend all my time with a three year old. I'm lucky I only knocked it once."

"Hmm." Aramis lifts his tunic, examining the ribs carefully. "I don't think you've done any more damage. How's your leg?"

"Fine."

Aramis backs up a step or two, hesitating. "d'Artagnan –“

"It didn't bother me from Louis," d'Artagnan tells him. "He doesn't know about orders, not really. But you do. You know exactly what it costs me, and you did it anyway. That's what hurts me. Not that you did it; that you did it knowing what it would do to me."

"I know," Aramis murmurs. "I wish I could tell you I'll never do it again. But I can't. Not for him."

“I would have saved him. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. You should know that.”

"I do. I do, I know it, but...if it had been me making the choice, would you have kept quiet?"

“I’m not –“ d'Artagnan shakes his head. “I’m not arguing your right to make the choice, Aramis. Only your way of doing it.”

“I couldn’t – not.”

d'Artagnan studies him for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says abruptly.

“Sorry?”

“It can’t be easy for you. Watching me with him. If I thought she’d agree, I’d ask the Queen to let you have my place.”

“She won’t,” Aramis says quietly. “And if I have to watch anyone, I’m glad it’s you. He loves you.”

d'Artagnan smiles involuntarily. “Yes. I’ll keep him safe, Aramis. I swear it.”

“I know. You’ll forgive me if I worry just a little.”

d'Artagnan nods, swallowing the rest of what he’d had planned to say. There’s no point berating Aramis any more; d'Artagnan knows he’d do worse to protect the Dauphin, and he doesn’t have Aramis’ excuse.

“Have you spoken to Porthos?” he asks, turning away to cross to the window.

Aramis stays where he is. “I’m going to. But he has your job now. It’s hard to catch him.”

d'Artagnan smiles again. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“I’ll tell him,” Aramis promises.

“Good.”

“It was never – I never thought that you’d turn me in. It was to protect you.”

“No one hurts me if you can stop it,” d'Artagnan says, under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“I said I understand,” he says more loudly.

Aramis fiddles with his hat. “Have you – decided? What you’re going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I went to Louis. I told him I knew something that would hurt him and everyone around him. He ordered me to keep silent about it.”

“Ordered,” Aramis repeats.

“Told. I asked him to make it an order. You’re safe until keeping the secret harms more people than revealing it would, and since the queen carefully listed off everyone who’d be harmed by revealing it, I think you’re safe.”

“Thank you,” Aramis murmurs.

d'Artagnan shrugs. “It’s done, now. Until we talk to Porthos; and then it’s done forever. Yes? The Dauphin _has_ to be Louis’ son, Aramis, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Aramis says softly.

“He’ll be King of France,” d'Artagnan offers.

Aramis snorts a laugh. “Oddly, not as much of a consolation as you may think.”

“I’d die for him.”

“I hope you will never need to, my friend.”

 

On the fourth day of his week off there’s a reception planned for the newest Spanish ambassador. d'Artagnan offers to go, but Louis assures him that it’s all in hand. The Dauphin will be there long enough to be presented and then he’ll leave. Philippe won’t be there at all; he’s too young yet.

They spend the night before the reception in Louis’ sitting room, talking idly. d'Artagnan enjoys it. Louis has a sharp sense of humour when he’s not trying to be dignified and reserved, and it’s more like spending time with a friend than his monarch. d'Artagnan wonders, if he’d known four years ago when he was commissioned that he’d become his King’s closest friend, would he have believed it. Probably not, he decides. That Louis was a childish, self absorbed man, as far from this one as is possible.

He thinks about going to watch the reception – there’s servant’s entrances where he won’t be seen – but he decides against it in the end. He’s seen plenty of receptions and expects to see plenty more.

He’s reading something Louis gave him when there’s shouting and screaming outside. He’s on his feet, searching for his sword, when Porthos bursts in. The Dauphin’s under his arm, screaming in what sounds like pure terror.

“What happened?” d'Artagnan demands, accepting the boy without thinking.

“Not sure yet. You keep him in here, I’ve got three men outside. Don’t move!”

“Porthos…”

“Don’t know yet!” Porthos slams the door on the way out.

d'Artagnan stares after him. The Dauphin has stopped screaming, but he’s clinging tightly to d'Artagnan, tight enough to hang on himself without d'Artagnan’s supporting hand.

The door here doesn’t lock. The manservants aren’t supposed to need privacy. d'Artagnan opens the door long enough to tell the men outside what he’s doing; then he persuades the Dauphin to get down long enough to drag the spindly table in front of the door. It won’t stop it opening, but it’ll delay anyone trying to get in.

His crossbow’s in a parcel under the bed. d'Artagnan hauls it out, looking at the Dauphin. “You don’t touch this, no matter what happens, your highness, promise?”

“Where’s Mama?”

“I’ll get you to Mama. I promise. Right now, I need you to promise not to touch this, yes?”

“Promise,” he whispers, eyes wide.

“Good boy,” d'Artagnan praises him, unwrapping, loading and priming the crossbow. Settling it beside him on the floor, he holds out an arm for the Dauphin; the boy plasters himself against d'Artagnan’s side. “If I tell you to,” he whispers, “slide under the bed and don’t come out. Promise?”

“Promise.” The Dauphin buries his face in d'Artagnan’s neck. “Is it the bad man?” he asks, voice muffled.

“I don’t know, your highness. Just stay with me and do as I tell you, all right?”

“And then Mama?”

“Then Mama,” he promises.

They sit for a long time; d'Artagnan shifts every so often, making sure he’ll be able to move if he needs to. The Dauphin is silent, but awake, watching the door just as closely as d'Artagnan is.

Athos comes to the door in the end; he and d'Artagnan trade anecdotes until d'Artagnan’s sure it’s him. When he gets the door open Athos steps inside; Aramis lingers in the doorway. There’s fresh blood on his face and leathers, but he shakes his head at d'Artagnan’s look.

Athos goes to one knee in front of the Dauphin. “Your majesty, come with us. We’ll take you to your mother.”

“With Charl,” the Dauphin says firmly.

“Yes, of course with Charl.”

“ _Majesty_?” d'Artagnan hisses. Athos is still focused on the Dauphin, and d'Artagnan turns to Aramis.

“Le roi est mort,” he murmurs. “Vive le roi.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned character death - the same one - but that's all.

Three days later Aramis forces d'Artagnan into bed – and the fact that Aramis can do it shows d'Artagnan how desperately he needs it, though he still fights it every step of the way. He hasn't slept since Louis' death.

He wakes a couple of hours later with the Dauphin curled into his chest. “Where’d you come from?” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“Apologies,” Aramis says softly. “He came to your door.”

“S’fine.” d'Artagnan runs a hand through soft curls. Vaguely he thinks he shouldn’t be doing this in front of Aramis, but the thought flees before he can do anything about it.

He’s not sure exactly how much the Dauphin actually understands of what’s going on, but he’s been quiet and clingy, refusing to stand on his own feet if there’s anyone around at all. d'Artagnan’s getting rather good at completing his work with the child sitting on one hip. When he isn’t with the Dauphin, he’s been with Anne, doing his best to help her; he knows nothing about the procedures for this kind of thing, but he hopes knowing she has his uncontested loyalty is a comfort, somehow.

Besides, someone has to counter Rochefort’s influence. d'Artagnan doesn’t like the way he’s urging Anne to break relations with Spain; they still haven’t proven that it was the Spanish who killed Louis, after all.

He drifts back into sleep, always aware of the boy in his arms. When he wakes again it’s some time later and it’s Porthos with him instead of Aramis.

“Feel better?” Porthos asks softly.

d'Artagnan draws carefully away from the Dauphin to sit up. “Yes. Thank you. Was I very unbearable?”

“Not as bad as Athos on a bender. Ready to eat?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll get something for him as well, if you wanna wake him.”

“Yeah,” d'Artagnan says with a sigh. Porthos slips out of the room and d'Artagnan carefully wakes the Dauphin.

He’ll have to stop calling him the Dauphin soon.

Porthos reappears with a tray. d'Artagnan focuses on getting the Dauphin to eat, absently taking bites himself here and there. When they’re finished he swings the boy onto his hip, standing to head out of the room.

Porthos halts him in the doorway. “We’re with you,” he says softly. “You know that, don’t you? This ain’t all on you.”

“Not all,” d'Artagnan agrees with a nod. “Do you know where Constance is?”

“My guess, about a foot away from the queen.”

“Thank you.”

Constance is, in fact, standing just behind the queen; they’re in the throne room with Rochefort and a handful of other functionaries. Anne looks exhausted; d'Artagnan wonders if she’s had anyone to send her to bed when she needs it. He slips through the crowd and swings the Dauphin off his hip. “Someone to see you, your majesty.”

“Oh…” She kneels to wrap her arms around him.

d'Artagnan quietly disperses the group of servants; Rochefort refuses to move, and he doesn’t try to get rid of Constance, he needs her here. Anne is holding the Dauphin tightly, eyes closed.

d'Artagnan crouches beside them after a minute. “Your majesty, will you sit?” he murmurs.

Anne glances at the twin thrones, shaking her head. “Not there.”

“No.” He helps her up, ignoring Rochefort’s scowl. Constance drags over a chair and they get Anne into it together, boosting the Dauphin onto her lap.

“Your majesty,” Rochefort says patiently, “since d'Artagnan is here now, perhaps we should speak about the young King’s guard?”

“His guard,” d'Artagnan says, not following.

“You performed admirably as the Dauphin’s guard, but now that he is the King, perhaps someone with more experience…”

“No one has more experience with him than d'Artagnan does,” Constance protests.

“Indeed. Such a shame he wasn’t attending to his duties four days ago.”

“Rochefort!” Anne snaps. Rochefort bows, but he doesn’t withdraw the words.

d'Artagnan turns to Anne, heart racing. “Do you want me to retire, your majesty?”

“There is nothing I want less.”

“If you feel that I’ve failed…”

“No, Charles.” She glances down at the Dauphin. “Besides, it would take a greater power than I to separate you two. No. My hope is that you will continue in your role as his guard and protector.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t be easy,” Rochefort tells them. “France is effectively without a King, and – if you’ll forgive me, your majesty – the Queen has never been well loved at court.”

“The people love you,” Constance says immediately.

Anne smiles faintly, resting her chin on the Dauphin’s head. “Rochefort is right. The court has never been fond of me. They will resist my regency.”

“I hesitate to suggest this so soon, but –“

“If you think it’s too soon, don’t suggest it,” d'Artagnan interrupts him. “Louis is not yet buried. There is time to think of these things.”

“We must be practical –“

“We must grieve,” he says tightly. Rochefort studies him for a moment before inclining his head and turning away.

Anne squeezes his hand in thanks and he smiles faintly.

 

“Charl.”

“Yes, your – sire.” Not yet crowned, but technically not a Highness anymore, it’s getting more awkward for d'Artagnan to address the soon-to-be-King directly.

“Where’s King Father?”

d'Artagnan sighs, sitting on the floor and gesturing the boy to join him. The servants will work around them. “King Louis is –“

“Where’s he?” the boy asks, leaning against his side.

“He’s gone away, sire.”

“Gone away?”

“Yes. He died and he’s gone to Heaven.”

The Dauphin curls against him, considering. “When will he come back?”

d'Artagnan has to blink several times. How had his father handled this when his mother died? “He won’t come back, sire,” he says, voice breaking.

“But when? I want to see him.”

“Yes. I’d like to see him too. But he won’t be back, sire.”

The Dauphin plucks at d'Artagnan’s sleeve. He’s learned, now, and he never lifts the cloth above d'Artagnan’s wrists. “Was I bad? I’ll be good.”

“No,” d'Artagnan whispers. “You were the best son possible. You did exactly right.”

“I was bored, but I did the party.”

“I know you did. You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise.” d’Artagnan is fiercely glad Aramis isn’t here to see his son crying over the man he’d called father.

“If I’m good, can he come back?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, sire. This isn’t your fault.”

If it’s anyone’s fault, d’Artagnan muses - if there’s a karmic element here, if Louis’ death is divine retribution - then it’s his. Ordered or not, he’s still party to treason. He’d prayed for a solution, but he’d be a heathen all his life rather than follow a god who thought this was just. The King’s death might be a solution to his problems, but he’d happily take treason to a living Louis over this any day.

“Sir?” one of the maids says quietly.

“What is it?”

“We’re finished, sir. They’re waiting in the King’s – in his new rooms.”

d'Artagnan nods, nudging the boy gently until he stands. “Walk,” he says softly. “Be the King your father knew you could be.”

It’s cruel, really, moving the boy out of his own rooms and into the king’s, where everything is too big for him. But he is – or soon will be – the King. He can’t continue to occupy the Dauphin’s rooms. That’s Philippe now.

Rochefort has, of course, taken the opportunity to put on a show. The Dauphin walks to his new quarters through a gauntlet of servants, most of whom he’ll probably never see again. There are Musketeers stationed every so often; d’Artagnan greets the ones he knows and nods at the ones he doesn’t and reminds himself, again, that he needs to be more familiar with them.

The Queen is waiting, Philippe in her arms, at the door of the rooms. “Dieudonné,” she says with a smile, kneeling to hug him one armed. Behind her, Constance bows.

“Mama,” he answers softly. “Charl says Papa can’t come back but it’s not me being bad.”

“It’s not you being bad at all, my love,” she assures him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Come. Let’s see your new rooms.”

d’Artagnan, trailing behind them with Constance at his side, can only think how very big and empty the rooms are, and how very small and fragile the boy looks.

 

d’Artagnan’s room in the new apartment has two entrances, one from the corridor and one that opens from the Dauphin’s. He’s in the habit of leaving the adjoining door open at night; there are other guards throughout the apartment, drawn from the Garde du Corps, but none as close. The Dauphin sleeps deeply most nights and d’Artagnan isn’t used to being disturbed.

He very nearly hamstrings the figure standing over the bed before he recognises it.

“Aramis!” he hisses. “What are you doing?”

“I tried,” Aramis says softly. “I really did.” His hand is resting on the blankets, inches from the Dauphin’s outflung arm.

“Tried what?”

“To save him. I tried so hard.”

“Save who?” d’Artagnan eases around the bed. The only lamp burning is in the wrong place; he can’t see Aramis’ face properly, but there’s something wrong in his voice.

“Vive le roi; le roi est mort.”

 _Louis_. d’Artagnan’s still not clear on a lot of the details – no one seems too eager to tell him – but he knows Aramis tried to save him, dragged him back from death once before the king succumbed to blood loss.

Aramis’ fingers edge closer to the Dauphin’s, so slow and careful d’Artagnan almost doesn’t see it. “I know you probably think – but I did try.”

“I know you did,” d’Artagnan says, startled. It had never occurred to him that Aramis _wouldn’t_ do his best no matter who his patient was.

“I didn’t want this for him.” Aramis’ voice cracks on the last word.

d’Artagnan catches his arm, propelling him out of the Dauphin’s room and into his own before he can object. He pushes the door closed, turning up his lamp. Aramis flinches away from the light; d’Artagnan lowers it again, leaving just enough light to keep them from falling over anything.

“King of France,” Aramis says with a sigh. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? And now he is.”

“This isn’t your fault,” d’Artagnan says quietly. “I heard that Louis – no one could have saved him, Aramis. I know you did everything you could.”

“Do you?”

“Aramis.” d’Artagnan steps around the bed, directly in front of Aramis; this close he can see tears glistening on the other man’s face. “I know you did.”

“You’re his father now.”

d’Artagnan blinks. “What?”

“Louis was a good father.” d’Artagnan can’t imagine what it costs Aramis to keep his voice even when he says that. “He’s gone, but there’s you. I’ve seen you with him.”

“I’m not trying to take him from you.”

That might be a smile on Aramis’ face, or it might be a grimace; d’Artagnan can’t see clearly enough to tell. “He was never mine for you to take. Be what he needs, d’Artagnan.”

“Always,” d’Artagnan promises.

Aramis shudders, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. d’Artagnan joins him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, guarding him while he grieves.

 

d'Artagnan taps on Anne’s door, waiting to be announced. Another change; before Louis’ death he would have announced himself to Anne, secure in the knowledge that she was always happy to see him. Now, though, she’s busy trying to work out the regency situation and he’s been turned away a handful of times. He doesn’t begrudge it, but it’s difficult to get used to.

Constance smiles as she lets him in. “Try and make her smile,” she says softly. “It’s been too long.”

He nods, crossing the room to bow. “Your majesty.”

“Charles,” Anne returns. He hates the unease between them – it’s pointless now – but he can’t even refer to it in company, and Rochefort is standing at her shoulder. “Did you need something?”

“Permission to take the Dauphin out of the palace.”

“He’s being crowned tomorrow,” Rochefort points out.

“I know his schedule.”

“Where do you want to bring him?” Anne asks.

“The garrison. I thought the Musketeers might like to meet their new King, and he should at least recognise the uniform of the men who’ll be protecting him.”

“Surely he knows the Musketeer uniform, your friends are never far away,” Rochefort says, sounding bored. d'Artagnan ignores him, and Rochefort adds sharply, “I feel it unwise to remove him from the palace so close to his coronation.”

d'Artagnan ignores that, too, watching Anne. She’s clearly thinking carefully before she nods. “You will bring an escort, of course.”

“Of course, your majesty.” 

“And ask Treville if he’s changed his mind yet.”

“I will.” d'Artagnan glances around the room. “Where’s your garde du corps, your majesty?”

“Killed in the attack. I have not yet found time to appoint a new one.”

d'Artagnan frowns, meeting Rochefort’s eyes for the first time. “That really should be done. Shall I appoint someone for you?”

“It doesn’t matter right now, d'Artagnan,” Anne says absently.

“It matters more than ever now, your majesty.” Without Anne’s blessing, the garde du corps are considerably hampered in the way they can work around her.

“d'Artagnan’s right, it needs to be done,” Rochefort agrees. “I will take care of it for you.”

“Very well,” she says impatiently. d'Artagnan bows, withdrawing, and meets Constance near the door.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he murmurs. “If she’s alone at all, send for me.”

“I will,” Constance promises. He smiles quickly at her before leaving.

Athos is ‘entertaining’ the Dauphin in an antechamber; d'Artagnan scoops the boy up under his arm without pausing as he passes. “Are we ready?” he asks over his shoulder.

“We are,” Athos agrees, falling into step beside him.

“Weh-here are we go-ho-ing?” the Dauphin asks, bouncing in d'Artagnan’s grip.

“It’s a surprise, sire,” d'Artagnan tells him, swinging him right way up and perching him on his hip. The Dauphin seems satisfied with that, resting his head on d'Artagnan’s shoulder and watching curiously as they reach the courtyard. Porthos is holding d'Artagnan's horse; Aramis has the others by the gate.

"Up we go," d'Artagnan murmurs, swinging the Dauphin into the saddle. "Hold on tight, now." The boy obeys and d'Artagnan nods to Porthos to turn the horse before he mounts, sitting behind the Dauphin.

"Where are we going?" he asks again.

"On an adventure, sire." d'Artagnan nudges the horse forward; the Dauphin catches his arm, holding on carefully. "Good. Hold on to me, all right? We're not going far."

Aramis slides into place in front of them, Athos and Porthos are beside and behind him. d'Artagnan clicks to his horse, carrying the Dauphin out of the palace and into Paris.


	12. Chapter 12

Treville meets them at the gate; d'Artagnan swings the Dauphin into his arms while he dismounts and then reclaims him. "Sir."

"d'Artagnan," Treville answers. "There's a man here carrying a letter from you, under the Dauphin's seal."

"Already?" d'Artagnan says, and then "He came here?"

"He said he wasn't sure of his reception at the palace."

"He can't be too sure of his reception here, either. Thank you, sir. Where is he?"

"Your old room, as it happens."

d'Artagnan smiles faintly, nodding. “I have orders to ask if you’ve changed your mind, sir.”

Treville smiles, shaking his head. “No. I will retire at the end of the year, as planned.”

“You could serve the Queen and the King for many years yet.”

Treville shakes his head again. “I am old, d'Artagnan, and I’m tired. Two kings have been killed on my watch. I won’t lose a third.”

“He won’t die,” d'Artagnan says automatically, adding quickly, “And you’re not old.”

Treville snorts. “Introduce me, d'Artagnan.”

Glancing at the slowly gathering Musketeers in the courtyard, d'Artagnan drops to one knee next to the Dauphin. "Sire? You remember that before I was yours, I served as a Musketeer?" The Dauphin nods, eyes wide as he watches the men. "Do you remember who the Musketeers are?"

"Royal guards outside the palace."

"Good," d'Artagnan praises him. "This is Captain Treville, the leader of the Musketeers."

"Your leader?"

"My captain," d'Artagnan agrees, and he knows Treville knows the layers of meaning behind that word. "Captain Treville, may I present Louis Dieudonné."

Treville bows, and then goes to a knee to be on the Dauphin's level. "We are honoured, your majesty," he says solemnly.

d'Artagnan stands, looking for Aramis. "Stay with him?"

"Where are you going?" Athos asks.

d'Artagnan gestures to the stairs. "Talk to my contact."

"I'll come."

"No, thank you. I'll do it on my own." Athos narrows his eyes, and d'Artagnan shakes his head. "You'd kill him before I got anything useful out of him."

He wasn't sure any of them would get it, but Porthos bites off a curse. "What'd you want to get him here for?"

d'Artagnan glances at Treville, busily introducing the Dauphin to the senior Musketeers under Aramis' watchful gaze. "If the assassination was a Spanish plot, he may know."

"Doesn't mean he'll tell you!"

"He'll tell me. Just stay with the Dauphin."

Athos is only a few steps behind him up the stairs – just long enough, d'Artagnan thinks cynically, for Porthos to give him the name. "I'm coming with you."

"No, Athos."

"Why not?"

d'Artagnan stops on the balcony, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "The Dauphin is my master now. But he –“ He glances towards the rooms. "He'll try and upset me. He can't, not any more; I know who I am. But I don't want you listening to it. Please?"

"The Dauphin's not your master."

"He owns me body and soul," d'Artagnan murmurs. "He's more my master than Domingo ever was. Stay here."

Athos studies him for a long time. d'Artagnan waits patiently. Below, someone has boosted the Dauphin onto one of the horses; they can hear the squeals of laughter clearly.

Finally Athos shakes his head. "I will wait outside. If he lays one hand on you, his life is forfeit; I don't care what information he may have."

"Agreed," d'Artagnan says quickly. From outside, Athos won't know exactly what's happening anyway.

They head to the barracks. d'Artagnan has to think about which room was his, which surprises him a little, but then he spent so little time there, comparatively. He doesn't knock; only opens the door and walks in, closing it against Athos' glare.

Domingo looks up from his book. "Charles. Ah, no, forgive me. It's d'Artagnan these days, isn't it?"

"It was always d'Artagnan," he says evenly. "You made good time; I wasn't expecting you this soon. I wasn't expecting you, to be honest. I thought you would write a reply."

"I was close to the border when your letter found me. And anything that would drive you to ask information from me..." He shrugs.

d'Artagnan takes a single step towards him. "Did your countrymen kill my king? Shoot him down in his own home, during a party for one of their own? Was it Spain?"

Domingo studies him carefully for a moment. "I have no facts for you. Only a rumour; one single rumour, buried so deeply among mountains of other rumours that I almost missed it. I can offer no opinion on its' truth."

"What is the rumour?"

Domingo switches to Spanish. "What is it worth?"

"Your life," d'Artagnan says evenly. "Athos is outside this door, and he wants nothing more than to kill you. Tell me what you know, I will guarantee your safe return to Spain."

"How kind," Domingo murmurs. "Can you guarantee such a thing?"

"I brought you here under the Dauphin's seal. I am head of his household. Athos won't go against me."

"How nice for you."

Another step forward; d'Artagnan is standing directly over Domingo now. "The Queen made me his guard in recognition of the sacrifice I made for Louis. So I suppose I have you to thank." He turns away abruptly, going back to French to satisfy Athos. "All the time I was yours, I only lied to you once, Domingo. Tell me the truth now. Give me the rumour."

Domingo brushes absently at one sleeve. "There is a rumour that someone in the French court belongs to Spain. A Frenchman who swore loyalty to Spain – or a French woman; the rumour does not say, and I could find no one who would admit even to having heard this rumour. This person has been working for some years to gain power and prestige and now moves to consolidate power while France's succession hangs in the balance."

"The Dauphin will be crowned tomorrow."

"Your Dauphin's not yet four years old; the power now lies in the hands of a queen derided for the land of her birth. Phillip is already sending offers of help, and you are watched from every corner of the world. They’re ready to see you fall." Domingo stands. "This is truly all I know, Charles. I have never lied to you."

"No. You haven't." d'Artagnan nods. "Stay here in the garrison. I'll arrange for your return to Spain. Thank you."

Athos at least lets him put the length of the corridor between him and Domingo before he starts. "Why would you call on him for help?"

"He's the only person I know in Spain, and I knew he'd answer."

"d'Artagnan, that man beat you!"

"Oh, good. Tell me again what he did to me, because clearly my actually being there doesn't mean anything."

"It clearly doesn't if you go to him for help!"

d'Artagnan tries to count to ten but has to abandon the attempt at four. "I know how to handle Domingo. And he had useful information. I'll go to anyone who can help me, Athos."

" _We_ can help you."

"You can't tell me what the rumours in Spain are."

Athos studies him. "It's not your job to know what the rumours in Spain are."

"Anything that pertains to the Dauphin's security is my job. And as soon as he's crowned, they'll give him a seneschal and I'll have no _power_. I need to do this _now_."

"I wasn't aware that your power meant that much to you."

"It's not the power! Athos!" d'Artagnan scrubs a hand through his hair; he only makes it as far as two this time. "I need to keep him safe," he manages. "I'll call on anyone I have to to do that."

"He has a garde du corps and a regiment of Musketeers, d'Artagnan. His safety is not solely your responsibility."

"It is," d'Artagnan breathes. "I have to – I _have_ to, Athos."

"Why?" Athos insists.

"Because Louis died!" 

Faintly, from below, he can hear the Dauphin laughing; he tracks the sound to a window. Looking down into the yard, he can see the boy flailing with the smallest wooden dagger in the armoury.

"Kings die," Athos says from behind him. "Men die, fathers die. It's a tragedy, but it doesn't –“

"I didn't go."

Silence for almost a minute. "I'm sorry?"

"I didn't go to the reception. I thought about it. I could have gone. But I've been to plenty and I expect I'll be at plenty more. I didn't go."

"You don't know that you would have made a difference."

"I could have tried." Aramis is kneeling next to the Dauphin, showing him how to hold the dagger. d'Artagnan can feel his heart skip a beat at the sight of the two dark heads pressed together. "It's arrogant, I know. To think that I could have done something you couldn't – but maybe another set of eyes, a different angle..." He shakes his head. "I didn't go. Louis is dead. I will not fail the Dauphin."

"You didn't fail Louis."

"If I let the Dauphin down – it's like losing Louis all over again, Athos. I can't do it. I have to –“ He trails off, gesturing helplessly, because it's too big and too much and how can he possibly...? "Everything I gave up for Louis, I gave up while he was a spoiled, selfish man who happened to not be disfigured when he was born. The Dauphin is a kind, sweet boy, and I _love_ him. He'll be a good king, Athos, a great king. I'll do anything I have to to make that happen. Facing Domingo is hardly the worst thing the universe could ask of me."

"It's bad enough."

"Athos –“ d'Artagnan rubs a hand across his face. "Everything I gave up for Louis _wasn't enough_. The Dauphin will have everything of me, without question. All of it." He looks back at Athos, standing in the shadows of the corridor. "You came for me in Spain, when I'd told you not to. Two weeks ago, when you were almost on the gallows I built for you, you told me I would always be your brother. As long as I followed my conscience, you said. My conscience is a very quiet voice in a very loud room these days, but am I still your brother? Am I a Musketeer?"

"You have it wrong." Between his hat and the shadows, d'Artagnan can't see Athos' face at all. "If you follow your conscience, you are a Musketeer. But you are my brother without question, always. I don't believe there's anything you could do to make me turn from you. Nor them," he adds, tilting his head towards the window.

d'Artagnan looks down at the others. "Porthos said I should share what burdened me. To make it lighter; to make it easier to carry." He turns away from the window, watching Athos. "I've asked too much of you already, Athos, but I am tired and my burden is heavy. Help me. Please."

"Always," Athos says softly. "Only tell us what you need."

d'Artagnan leans against the wall, suddenly dizzy. “Thank you, my brother,” he murmurs.

Athos’ hand is warm on his arm. d'Artagnan’s whole world collapses down to that touch; there is nothing else for a terrifyingly long time. Just white, blank nothingness.

His world opens back up when he hears the Dauphin protesting. “But I want to.”

“d'Artagnan’s sad right now,” Porthos says from somewhere out of d'Artagnan’s field of vision. Not that there’s much _in_ d'Artagnan’s field of vision; just a blank ceiling.

“Sad,” the Dauphin repeats thoughtfully.

“Yes, sire. Let me take you back to the palace. d'Artagnan will follow us.”

“He needs a hug,” the boy declares firmly.

“Sire…” Aramis, this time. d'Artagnan wonders absently where Athos is.

“When I’m sad, my mama or Charl always hugs me and it always makes it better. Charl needs a hug now.”

“It’s not quite the same,” Aramis tries.

“I’m _going_ to hug him,” the Dauphin declares, and oh, he has never been more Louis’ son than this moment.

d'Artagnan turns his head, enough to catch Aramis’ attention, and gestures them to let the boy through. The Dauphin beams when he realises he’s awake, but he quickly sobers. “Are you sad, Charl?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “I was thinking about your father, and it made me very sad.”

The Dauphin climbs up onto the bed, nestling into d'Artagnan’s body with an ease made possible by experience. “Where’s your father?”

“My father’s dead too.”

“Maybe they’re together in Heaven,” he suggests.

d'Artagnan pictures Louis, even the better version of Louis, making conversation with Alexandre d'Artagnan, and laughs softly. “Maybe.”

He’s crying. When did that happen?

The Dauphin pats his cheek gently. “No sad, Charl.”

He doesn’t answer, just draws the boy into his arms. Aramis is leaning over them, eyes worried; d'Artagnan tries to convey that he’s all right, but he can’t stop _crying_. Aramis squeezes his arm gently, and Porthos comes close enough to press a hand to the top of his head.

d'Artagnan tries to ask about Athos, but the sound that comes out of his mouth frightens him and he slams it shut again before he can scare the Dauphin. He’s shaking, now, trembling all over.

“Athos is here,” Aramis says softly, glancing up. Porthos lets go briefly to step around the bed, immediately touching d'Artagnan again, and Athos moves into the vacated space.

d'Artagnan shifts, reaching out to catch Athos’ hand and pull him in. Athos sits on the edge of the bed; d'Artagnan lifts the Dauphin bodily and presses them both against Athos, shaking harder. Athos wraps his arms around both of them and Aramis and Porthos hold on while d'Artagnan silently falls apart.

 

“d'Artagnan.”

It’s one of only a handful of voices that could make him move right now. d'Artagnan opens one eye.

Porthos is crouched by the side of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “but the Dauphin needs to go back to the palace. Do you want to come or will we take him?”

d'Artagnan’s grip tightens automatically on the tiny body in his arms. “No, I’ll come.”

“Right. Get yourself together, then. There’s water in the jug, you can wash your face.”

“That a hint?” d'Artagnan grumbles, carefully unfolding himself. The Dauphin grunts, rolling into the warm spot in the bed. “Where are we?”

“Treville’s room.”

d'Artagnan scrubs his face hard, looking around. “…right,” he says finally, recognising it now that he’s paying attention. “Where’re…”

“Aramis is getting the horses ready. Athos is talking to Treville.”

“About?” He heaves himself to his feet, shaking his head absently at the light headedness. He hasn’t felt this disconnected in years.

“About making sure one of us is in the palace to back you up for a while.” Porthos shrugs at his look. “He thinks you’re taking too much on.”

“I asked him for help.” d'Artagnan starts to lift the jug, has to stop when he sways.

“Whoa.” Porthos is there, steadying him and catching the jug in one hand. “All right?”

“A little light headed,” d'Artagnan admitted. “Hungry, maybe.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Not that that always mean much,” Porthos mutters, filling the basin neatly. “You going to fall over if I go look for something?”

“No,” d'Artagnan says after some thought.

Porthos catches his chin, turning his face so he can see it. “d'Artagnan.”

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan answers, not quite sure what the problem is.

Porthos lets him go with a sigh. “Wash your face. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, all right?”

“Yes.”

Porthos goes, and d'Artagnan washes his face and hands and wrists. His gauntlets are gone – doesn’t matter in this company, of course – and he swipes water up as far as his elbows and wipes it off again before looking for them. He finds them on the bedside table and sits on the bed to fit them back on; the Dauphin rolls over to curl around him, and between having to hold his arm at an angle and the slight tremble in his fingers, he can’t manage the laces on the gauntlets.

He’s just about to give up when Aramis comes in, carrying a tray. “All right?” he asks softly.

d'Artagnan held up a gauntlet. “Can’t do the laces.”

Aramis nods, setting the tray aside. “Can you wake him? Easier to help you if he’s not wrapped around you like that.”

“Yes.” The Dauphin sleeps deeply, but there are voices he’ll wake at once for, and d'Artagnan’s is one of them. It’s easy enough to get him up and nibbling on the bread Aramis has brought.

Aramis laces the gauntlets on quickly, checking as he goes to make sure they aren’t too tight or too loose or rubbing too much. Eventually d'Artagnan twitches and Aramis withdraws, watching him. “Do you want to eat?”

“I very much don’t.” He does anyway, eating the bread and fruit without tasting it.

The Dauphin kneels up on the bed to look out the window; d'Artagnan automatically catches one flailing foot before it would have kicked him in the side. “Do we have to leave?” the boy asks. “I like it here.”

“We can visit again,” d'Artagnan tells him, tugging lightly on the ankle to get him down. “If you’re ready to go, sire, you should wash your hands and face.”

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis murmurs as the Dauphin skips past him to plunge both hands into the basin. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?” he asks blankly.

“The last time I saw you act like this,” he says carefully, “you were recently returned from Spain.”

d'Artagnan freezes for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know what you mean.” He starts to stand, to join the Dauphin.

“Stop,” Aramis says flatly, and he does.

“That’s not funny,” d'Artagnan warns him.

“I’m not joking. When’s the last time you followed an order like that?”

d'Artagnan glances at the Dauphin, happily oblivious as he causes a flood on Treville’s floor. “That would be when I was trying to decide how to cope with your _treason_.” Aramis flinches, as d'Artagnan meant him to, but the tiny, shameful spurt of glee flickers and dies immediately. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t – I shouldn’t have said that, it wasn’t fair.”

“We worry for you,” Aramis tells him.

“I know, I know you do. And I do appreciate it, no matter how it looks – but I’m all right, Aramis. I promise I am.”

“Are you?”

d'Artagnan has to think. “No,” he admits finally. “But I will be.”

Aramis nods as though there’s no question of it, glancing over at the Dauphin. “Your majesty, I’m not sure Treville will appreciate your re-enacting the story of the great flood on his bedroom floor.” The Dauphin blinks at him and he sighs, getting up to find some rags. “You should drink something,” he adds to d'Artagnan.

“Are we there?” d'Artagnan murmurs, recognising the careful phrasing – Aramis had always been best at not giving him orders – but the older man doesn’t seem to hear him. d'Artagnan reaches for his goblet and drinks deeply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the last chapter. There'll be a short break before I start posting my next project.  
> Thanks a million for all the comments, kudos, follows and interest. You guys are amazing.

When Athos joins them, he quietly tells d'Artagnan that one or another of them will be with him at all times for the next few days. “Until we are sure that no turmoil or uprisings will accompany the coronation,” he says evenly. d'Artagnan smiles. It’s even plausible. Many coronations are marred by violence and protests, and most are under far less straitened circumstances than these.

Today Aramis is his companion, riding easily alongside them into the courtyard and accompanying d'Artagnan to the Queen’s apartments to report in. The Dauphin is hanging from their hands, chattering eagerly about the garrison and the men and the dagger he’d been allowed to use. d'Artagnan’s only half listening as the boy babbles on.

Constance meets them at the door, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry, she isn’t receiving anyone right now. I can tell her you’re back safe.”

“Thank you, Constance,” d'Artagnan says automatically.

“Is she unwell?” Aramis asks intently.

“No,” Constance says, but she’s hesitant enough that d'Artagnan knows Aramis won’t believe her. “She’s tired, I think. The regency weighs on her.”

Aramis glances towards the door. d'Artagnan crouches to the Dauphin, deliberately. “Time for bed, Sire.”

“We didn’t see Mama.”

“I know. You’ll see Mama tomorrow. Remember about tomorrow?”

“Core-oh-nay-tion,” he says very carefully.

“Good,” d'Artagnan agrees. “Well done. Now, if you ask Aramis nicely, he might know a good story to tell you tonight.”

The Dauphin turns to look at Aramis, who’s watching them with an odd look on his face. “Charl tells me about King Arthur,” he says, tripping only slightly over the English name.

“He does, does he?” Aramis says lightly. “I know some of those stories. Let’s go back to your rooms and I’ll see if I remember any of them.”

“He likes Lancelot,” d'Artagnan murmurs, and gets another sharp look for his troubles. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

As soon as they’re gone he tugs Constance into a hug; she makes a surprised noise, but holds on. “d'Artagnan?”

“I just need this for a minute.”

Her voice softens. “Did something happen?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me?”

“Later. Maybe. This, please?”

“Of course.”

She holds on until he relaxes his grip, pushing gently away. “Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He glances towards the door. “Not alone?”

“No. Still want me to let you know?”

“Please. It’s – I might help, a little. But not when anyone else is there.”

Constance nods, touching his cheek lightly. “If you need another hug, you know where I am.”

“Usually in the middle of court,” he agrees with a faint smile. “Thank you, Constance.”

“Always, d'Artagnan.”

It’s a coincidence, has to be, but her choice of words makes him smile as he heads to the Dauphin’s room. Someone has got him into his nightshirt and Aramis is dutifully reciting a story about Lancelot; he may be making it up on the spot, d'Artagnan doesn’t recognise it at all.

It’s been a long day and it doesn’t take the Dauphin long to fall asleep. d'Artagnan and Aramis withdraw to d'Artagnan’s room.

“I’ll get a room set up for you,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “Or – whoever.”

Aramis shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse places. You don’t need to bother anyone tonight.”

“If you’re sure.”

Aramis eyes him. “He likes Lancelot?”

“He does,” d'Artagnan insists. “I only tell him the ones where Lancelot saves damsels and kills evil knights, not anything about Guinevere.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” Aramis mutters. “Is the Queen unwell?”

“Like Constance says. She’s worried about the regency. I don’t think she’s actually ill.”

“Would you tell me?”

“I wouldn’t leave her suffering,” d'Artagnan says carefully, and it’s not quite the same thing but Aramis nods anyway.

“And how are you feeling now, d'Artagnan?”

“I’m tired,” d'Artagnan admits. “I’m so tired of fighting all the time for the exact same gain. Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, I fall back again.”

“It gets easier,” Aramis tells him. “You’re already learning how to handle it. It does get better, I promise.” d'Artagnan nods, letting himself fall backwards onto the bed and draping one arm over his eyes. Aramis sits beside him, and there’s silence for a while.

“You’ve seemed better, lately,” Aramis murmurs eventually. “I mean, before Marmion; before all of this.”

“It was better,” d'Artagnan agrees. “I’m sorry you can’t be his guard, but I think it saved me, Aramis. I think he saved me.”

“I’m glad of it,” Aramis says, and there’s complete sincerity in his voice. d'Artagnan shifts slightly, pressing against him from hip to ankle, and drifts for a while.

He wakes when someone knocks on the door. Aramis rolls off the bed and goes to answer, talking softly for a moment before coming back. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, I think. What’s wrong?”

“Constance sent you a message.”

d'Artagnan sits, brushing absently at his clothes. “Thanks.”

“You don’t want to hear the message?”

“I know what it is.” He sighs at Aramis’ look. “I asked Constance to send word when the queen was alone, so I can talk to her.”

Aramis studies him. “Why?”

“To see if I can help. To tell her that I wasn’t going to tell Louis. I don’t know, Aramis, I just want to talk to her. Do you want to come?”

“Do you want me there?”

d'Artagnan grimaces. “Aramis…”

“Yes, I’ll come.”

Constance meets them at the door of Anne’s sitting room. “I’m sorry, d'Artagnan, Rochefort got here just after I sent for you, and he’s still in there.”

“Alone?” Aramis says in surprise. d'Artagnan doesn’t wait for her answer, just knocks briefly on the door and lets himself in.

Rochefort glares at them. “You come into your queen’s presence unannounced?”

“I was sent for,” d'Artagnan says easily, crossing to bow over Anne’s hand.

She studies him for a moment before looking at Rochefort. “Charles is quite correct, Rochefort, I sent for him before you arrived. I did not expect you so late at night.”

“Sadly, duty is a harsh mistress, your majesty. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time.” He bows, letting himself out.

d'Artagnan looks after him, frowning. “Your majesty?”

“Rochefort…” She hesitates, clearing her throat. “He feels that it would strengthen my claim to rule if I were to wed, once my mourning is finished.”

“Wed,” Aramis says in surprise. “He wishes you to remarry?”

“He wishes you to remarry him?” d'Artagnan says, almost under his breath.

Anne smiles shakily. “He is a well respected member of court. And a friend. He would be kind to my sons.”

“You don’t need to remarry,” Aramis protests. “You are regent in your own right. Don’t allow yourself to be forced into another political marriage.”

“You shouldn’t make any decisions now, your majesty,” d'Artagnan adds. “At least complete your mourning first. No one can deny your right to that, and by then you may have a better idea how the regency will go.”

She smiles gratefully at him, relaxing a little. “Thank you. Both,” she adds towards Aramis. “I am glad to know that the Musketeers support me.”

“The Musketeers may or may not, but I do and always will,” d'Artagnan tells her, and Aramis bows his head in agreement.

Anne watches him. “You made a decision.”

“It doesn’t matter now. But yes. Before any of this – before Louis, I had decided not to speak of the Dauphin’s parentage.”

“I never meant to hurt Louis. I loved him.”

“I know.” d'Artagnan can’t see Aramis and doesn’t dare turn. “That was never the problem, your majesty.”

“I’m glad,” she murmurs. “Now, d'Artagnan. I know that we spoke briefly of this before. But your contract as the Dauphin’s guard will soon be up, and I gave my word I would let you go if you wanted to. That is still true. Return to the Musketeers with my blessing and good wishes. Or stay at the side of your king, for as long as you wish, and lead his garde du corps.”

“The garde du corps won’t be happy about that,” Aramis points out. “They tolerate him now only because the Dauphin is not king.”

“The garde du corps serve the royal family and take their orders from me,” Anne says, possibly a little more sharply than she means to. “I’m sure they would serve loyally and well, but the Dauphin knows and loves d'Artagnan. Familiarity will be a comfort to him now more than ever, with so much else changing.” Looking at d'Artagnan, she adds, “But you are free to leave, d'Artagnan; I mean that. It would pain me to think you stayed because you felt you should, rather than because you wanted to.”

d'Artagnan swallows. “I never wanted to leave the Musketeers,” he says quietly, feeling it out as he goes. Aramis is silent, but he steps closer in support. “And if you ever wish it, your majesty, I will return to them happily and serve with honour. But all that I can do there is fight for France. For the Dauphin, I can _live_.”

Anne smiles at him. “Then you will serve him as long as you wish, d'Artagnan. I will speak to Treville –“

She breaks off, looking questioningly at him, and he shakes his head. “He still intends to retire, your Majesty. Athos will succeed him.”

“Then I will ensure that you can call on Musketeer backup when you feel the need. You’ll want your friends around you.”

“I’ll want my brothers, yes,” he agrees. “Thank you, your majesty.” She looks around, and he frowns. “Majesty?”

“I will write it down now.”

“No,” he says gently. “Your majesty, you should get some rest. It’s late and tomorrow will be busy.”

“d'Artagnan is right,” Aramis agrees quickly. “The Dauphin will need you at your best, your majesty.”

“I’m fine.”

“And if I asked Constance if you’ve been eating and sleeping?” d'Artagnan asks.

Anne smiles, but he can see her giving in. “Constance is loyal to me.”

“Yes, she is. And in the spirit of that loyalty, she will agree that you should rest.”

“Do you speak to my son this way?”

“All the time, your majesty. May I call her in to help you?”

Anne sighs, looking at Aramis. “Does he bully other Musketeers like this?”

“All the time, your majesty, we’ve been trying to train it out for him for years,” Aramis agrees sympathetically. “You should probably agree graciously.”

“Never let it be said that I ignore the advice of my Musketeers.”

d'Artagnan crosses to the door to call Constance in. “We got her to agree to rest,” he murmurs.

“Careful, I’ll call on you every time she over works herself.”

He smiles, catching her hand and squeezing it gently. “I’m yours to call, Constance.”

“After the Dauphin.” Her tone is understanding, not accusatory, and her smile is genuine.

“After him,” he agrees. “Anything he doesn’t need of me is yours, always.” He lets go of her hand, raising his voice to add “And call me if her majesty tries to do any more work tonight.”

“I will,” Constance agrees, glancing over to where Anne and Aramis are talking quietly. 

“That reminds me,” Anne says abruptly, turning away from Aramis to look at d'Artagnan. “The King’s new household.”

“Yes, your majesty?” d'Artagnan says politely. He’ll be expected to be subordinate to the seneschal, and probably the manservants. He’s not looking forward to it.

“Rochefort has provided some suggestions, drawn from the palace staff. As you are head of his security, I would like you to look at the list. Talk to them. Choose the ones you think will work; I place it all in your hands.”

_That_ is unexpected, but maybe it will help. He’ll hardly be expected to be subordinate to people he appoints himself. He bows. “Thank you, your majesty. I’ll take care of it the day after tomorrow.”

Constance steps forward; she doesn’t even speak, but Anne nods. “You’re dismissed,” she tells the men, and they both bow and leave.

d'Artagnan brushes Constance’s hand on the way out, and she smiles. “Good night, d'Artagnan.”

“Good night, Constance.”

 

They're halfway back to his room when he stops dead, staring straight ahead.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis says, watching him.

"A Frenchman who..." He cuts himself off, heading for his room. There are still people in the corridors, even this late.

Aramis trails behind him, watches him check on the Dauphin, lock all the doors, test the windows. "What is it?" he asks finally.

d'Artagnan turns to look at him, blinking; he'd all but forgotten Aramis was there. "A Frenchman who swore loyalty to Spain."

It occurs to him that he doesn't know if Athos told the others what Domingo said, but Aramis is frowning. "I don't follow."

" _Rochefort_. He was in Spain for five years; he told us himself he was tortured. He's spent years building up power here, and he was never happy when Louis started interfering with the way he was doing things...now Louis is dead and he's trying to marry the Queen?"

Aramis is still frowning. "The political reasoning holds firm; a marriage to a member of court would strength the Queen's regency."

"He's only a Comte, whatever his standing in court is." Aramis is watching him carefully; d'Artagnan shakes his head. "I'm not going to run off and accuse him, Aramis. But I think we should watch him. Carefully."

"We will," Aramis promises. "I'll talk to the others. If there's proof, we'll find it. Right now you should rest; tomorrow will be just as long for you as it will for them."

d'Artagnan nods, finally, letting himself sink onto the bed. He's slept for hours at the garrison but he still feels tired, right down to the bone.

Aramis helps him strip off his boots, jerkin and trousers, leaving him in tunic and braes, pushing gently until he lies down. When Aramis turns away d'Artagnan reaches out, catching his wrist.

"I'm not leaving," Aramis murmurs. "Only tidying up. I'll be just a moment."

He's still mostly clothed when he lies down, d'Artagnan notes vaguely, but it doesn't matter. He curls against him, needing the contact tonight, needing to know that his brother is with him.

He sleeps.

 

_…and finally, your majesty, the coronation of France’s new King. Of course you will have received the official reports by now, so I will attempt to give only my impressions here, in the hope that you may find them useful._

_The young King was uncommonly solemn throughout the, admittedly long, ceremony. He spoke his lines without faltering and knew exactly where to stand and when to turn. For a child not yet four years old, it was most impressive. The Queen, though very quiet, was well engaged. The Dauphin Philippe appeared to sleep through most of the ceremony, a fact I’m sure his ladies were grateful for._

_The Musketeer d'Artagnan is still the personal guard; I saw the young King look to him at least once for guidance. He was joined by other Musketeers, those I thought were King Louis’ guard, but the young King looked only to him. d'Artagnan stayed by his side through the ceremony and the celebration afterwards and escorted him away when he became tired. The Queen retired at the same time._

_The regency is still uncertain and the young King, of course, will affect nothing for years yet, but I feel he will be a King to be reckoned with if he survives…_

_…my last letter as I withdraw from the palace. Indeed, I may even see you before this letter does. I am not the first ambassador to withdraw; the civil war that the French call the Fronde has sent many ambassadors and nobles into retreat._

_The young King chafes against the restraints on his freedom, but life continues. The Queen is determined that even in the midst of the war, her sons will have time to be children, so they are often found playing in the gardens – or, when deemed necessary, inside in the ballroom. The Dauphin has not yet been assigned a permanent guard, but d'Artagnan is always at the King’s side._

_I close this letter now as I make my final preparations to leave. I trust I will find you in good health on my return…_

 

d'Artagnan glances up as the major domo clears his throat, leaning in towards the King. “The Danish ambassador to say goodbye, sire,” he murmurs.

The King looks up from Philippe, nodding. “Thank you.”

d'Artagnan mostly ignores the speech. He’s heard variations on ‘sorry to leave, but I don’t really want to be killed in your civil war’ plenty of times over the last few months. The King, at least, is managing to look interested, and their careful revision of his lessons on Denmark are paying off as he’s able to make pertinent comments where necessary.

The ambassador finally takes his leave of the King, but he glances at d'Artagnan as he turns away. Curious, d'Artagnan takes a couple of steps away from the King, stepping down off the dais to join him.

“I will miss this court,” he says with a soft sigh. “You have a very special king, d'Artagnan.”

“I have often thought so,” d'Artagnan agrees, “but I have little experience with kings.”

“And he has a very loyal bodyguard.”

“Loyalty to a good man is easy, sir. Do you need anything for your journey?”

“No. Thank you, d'Artagnan. I will pray for your safety and a swift end to this war.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The ambassador nods, bowing once more to a mostly-oblivious King before turning to leave. Philippe waves goodbye and d'Artagnan smiles. The boys spend a lot of time together and he’s very fond of the young Dauphin.

The ambassador leaves the room and the boys settle back into their game. d'Artagnan goes back to watch over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have watched you fall_  
>  Through those tender years  
> And every time I thought there must be more that I could do  
> You found a light  
> A different way out there in front of you 
> 
> _I am in your eyes_  
>  Just that close to you  
> And now I see your innocence against a troubled sky  
> Everything you once believed is now a question why  
> It's ok 
> 
> _Don't lose your faith_  
>  Don't turn away  
> Everything that makes you who you are will not lead you astray 
> 
> _When it gets cold_  
>  Too dark to see  
> Reach in your soul and find me there,  
> I'll always be  
> Your constant angel 
> 
> _Who could ask the years_  
>  To keep its' truth from you  
> There will be times you won't believe in much of anything  
> Thats when you'll find the grace of God in just surrendering  
> It's ok 
> 
> _Don't lose your faith  
>  Don't turn away_
> 
> _Everything that makes you who you are will not lead you astray_
> 
> _When it gets cold_  
>  Too dark to see  
> Reach in your soul and find me there,  
> I'll always be  
> Your constant angel 
> 
> _In every prayer  
>  I am constantly there with you_
> 
> _Don't lose your faith_  
>  Don't turn away  
> Everything that makes you who you are will not lead you astray 
> 
> _When it gets cold_  
>  Too dark to see  
> Reach in your soul and find me there,  
> I'll always be  
> Your constant angel 


End file.
